Luke 10:25-37
*****
A man I know once said, "You cannot fully understand any story in the bible until you have identified with every character in the story." I believe this to be true.
This truth has impacted me in several ways. To start, I almost always know that I have more to learn from any story, no matter how familiar. Secondly, I recognize that when it comes to the gospels, I identify with Jesus way less often than I'd care to admit. Third, the character with whom I most strongly identify at a given time is often a signpost to where I am at spiritually and emotionally.
And, I have a confession to make. In our gospel lesson for today, I identify with the lawyer. More than that, I really like and admire the lawyer. This is probably not the impact the author of this gospel intended to have when he put pen to parchment.
These are tales about Jesus! The miracles he worked, the places he traveled, the people he engaged, the inflammatory comments he made! If anything, we're supposed to identify with him and strive to be more like him.
We're not supposed to identify with and appreciate the villain.
This lawyer, though.... He's crafty. And he's smart. And he uses language well.
I try to be kind to everyone I meet. I strive to love people well. I work to be gracious to and inclusive of others, no matter who they are.
I fail. A lot.
I have, on more than one occasion, been accused of using my intellect as a weapon. A co-worker recently told me that I have a special knack for making people ridiculous and stupid. Let me assure you, this is not often done on purpose. It is, however, a result of my very careful and incredibly intentional use of language.
This is where I identify with the lawyer. This is where I admire his chutzpah. He has the audacity first to challenge Jesus and second to seek to justify his behavior. And he does it with a careful and intentional use of language: And who is my neighbor?
This lawyer is crafty. And craftiness, in the bible, is a long and much admired tradition.
"What must I do to inherit eternal life?" the lawyer asks.
"What is written in the law? What do you read there?" Jesus responds.
"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself."
And Jesus says, "You have given the right answer; do this and you will live."
What strikes me is that Jesus never gives the man a direct answer. Rather, in response to the lawyer's question, he asks a question. "What is written in the law?"
And he does the same again when asked, "And who is my neighbor?"
Jesus never gives a direct answer to this lawyer.
In fact in the gospels, Jesus is almost 40 times more likely to ask a question than to give a direct answer.
And who is my neighbor is followed by a story and the question: Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?
Answering another question with another question.
So, I would like to take a little time this morning to unpack this parable of The Good Samaritan.
We have four characters in this parable: an injured man, a priest, a Levite, and a Samaritan. Though we are not told the ethnicity of the injured man, it is probably safe to assume he was Jewish. This is a story told to a Jewish man about how two Jewish religious authorities responded to the needs of an injured man and is contrasted against the way a Samaritan responded to that same injured man's needs.
Priests and Levites had very specific duties that centered on the Temple and worship. Priests performed sacred duties in the temple and entered the Holy of Holies, the innermost room of the temple where the ark of the covenant, the very presence of God, resided. Priests were charged with making sacrifices to God and performing rituals.
Levites assisted the priests in the temple in their duties, though they were not permitted beyond the Sanctuary within the Temple -- the antechamber to the Holy of Holies. Their many duties included the basic care of the Temple and the reading of the Torah during worship.
Priest and Levites are incredibly well versed in scripture. They would know beyond any shadow of a doubt that they are called to "love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself."
They would also have been well versed in what is now the Talmud -- at the time it was the oral tradition of interpreting the laws of the bible. This oral tradition was passed down in the Temple. With the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, the oral tradition was recorded on parchment as the Talmud.
Spending each day, every day, immersed in this oral tradition within the Temple, they would know the Pikuach Nefesh -- the rule concerning the preservation of life. The rule is simply this: with only three exceptions, the entirety of the Jewish law must be disregarded for the sake of saving a human life.
The three exceptions to this mandate are: 1) Defaming God's name, 2) Murder, and 3) Sacrificing one's own life to save another. It is permissible, however, to risk one's life in an attempt to save an other's. This is the religious tradition in which these men, the priest and the Levite, are steeped.
In this 1st century Palestine culture, however, nothing was more highly prized than ritual purity. Ceremonial purity was an absolute necessity. One could not serve in the Temple if one was not ritually clean. Touching a dead body makes one unclean. Those who are ceremonially unclean cannot perform sacrifices.
While the bible places an unmitigated emphasis on the preservation of life, this priest and Levite are not willing to risk touching a man who may be dying, as doing so will put them at risk of not being able to perform their duties. Knowing this man will die without fairly immediate attention and care, they instead leave him for dead and hurry by, crossing to the other side of the road so as to avoid him.
Yes, there is biblical precedent for remaining clean. Yes, there is biblical precedent for sacrifice. But when it comes to the preservation of life, an act of justice, in light of sacrifices, this is what God says: I hate, I despise your religious festivals; your assemblies are a stench to me. Even though you bring me burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will not accept them. Though you bring me choice fellowship offerings, I will have no regard for them. Away with the noise of your songs! I will not listen to your harps. But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.
And again: With what shall I come before the Lord and bow down before the exalted God? Shall I come before him with burnt offerings and calves a year old? Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousand rivers of oil? Shall I offer my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul? He has shown you, o mortal, what is good! And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.
Yes these men, a priest and a Levite, choose to keep their hands clean rather than show mercy to a beaten and dying man.
And what of the Samaritan?
Jews and Samaritans despised one another. They were enemies. Born of a common ancestor, they disagreed about many things, but it was their religious differences that most clearly distinguished them. Samaritans are the hated half-siblings of the Jews.
Again, ritual purity was at stake. Jews did not engage with Samaritans. Nor did Samaritans engage with Jews. They had their own separate territories and neither crossed into the land of the other lightly. They did not speak to one another, and the most certainly did not touch one another. They would not even touch a common object. To do would make them unclean.
And yet, it is a Samaritan who, upon seeing the man, went to him, bandaged his wounds, poured oil and wine on them, put him on his own animal, took care of him, and paid for his continued care at an inn.
What made the Samaritan's response so different from the response of the priest or the Levite?
What was different about the Samaritan himself?
The Jewish lawyer in today's gospel lesson would surely have identified himself with the priest and the Levite. The Jewish lawyer who sought to test Jesus and to justify himself.
It is the Samaritan, however, who was first moved with compassion.
Not bound by notions of ritual purity and a sense of self-righteous justification for keeping his hands clean, the Samaritan saw a man in need, and feeling compassion, was compelled to acts of mercy. Moved with compassion, he does not turn away.
Despised by the Jews, rather than permit one of them to perish, this Samaritan is moved with compassion, risks his own life, sacrifices his own comfort, spends his own wealth with no expectation of repayment, and seeks to meet the needs of an injured and dying man. The one who is despised and hated chooses to show love and mercy and to bring healing.
The Samaritan reminds me of Jesus.
Much as I identify with the crafty lawyer in this story, I want to identify with Jesus. I want to be more loving. I want to be more compassionate.
But it goes beyond that. For as crafty as this lawyer is, Jesus is craftier! He allows the lawyer to use his self-righteous justifications to lead him to a place where his craftiness fails him.
"What do you read in the law?"
"'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.' And who is my neighbor?"
And this is the brilliance of Jesus's answer: he makes it clear that in seeking to justify himself, the lawyer has asked the wrong question. Love your neighbor as yourself. "Who is my neighbor?" is the wrong question. "Which of these men, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?"
The question is not "Who is our neighbor?" The question is, "To whom will we be a neighbor?"
The question is not "What must we do to inherit eternal life?" The question is, "How will we choose to live today?"
Are we going to choose to keep our hands clean? Are we going to ignore those in need, be it physical, emotional, or spiritual? Are we going to justify our inaction by claim self-righteously, "They are not my neighbor, it's not my job?" Are we going to ask "Who is my neighbor?"
Or will we choose mercy? Will we choose compassion? Will we seek to meet the needs of those we know? Will we intentionally seek opportunities to meet others who have needs? Will we be a people who asks instead, "How can I be a neighbor to those in need?"
My hope is that more and more we are the ones who put aside our pride and self-righteous justifications and choose instead to show mercy. In doing so, we will not only inherit eternal life; we will truly learn what it means to live today.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Saturday, July 13, 2013
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.
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?
"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.
Monday, June 24, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Communion Sunday, Bearded Iris, and M. Roger Holland, II
I awoke ashamed.
I thought I would be able to maintain an emotional distance, but I didn't.
I'm stuck and I don't know how to get out, though I'm fairly sure that getting out is the right and healthy thing to do.
I thought that perhaps I could walk the line very carefully until I had a clear plan, an answer, some idea of what to do. I thought that perhaps emotional vulnerability only happened when I had a need and shared openly.
I was wrong.
Instead, I learned that emotional vulnerability happens when we share our joys as well as our sorrows. And as the bearded iris have bloomed--10 weeks late--I shared this love. I did not share why I love bearded iris so much.
Very few people know that I love these flowers. Far fewer know why. Only a handful know the significance they came to hold in 2007.
I shared none of this. Just that they had finally bloomed, and how extraordinary was their fragrance, and how sad that the petals had been blown off the three in the neighbor's yard.
Instead of feeling connected, instead of feeling joy and delight in our conversation and in our relationship, I felt empty and ashamed for sharing any part of myself.
And I awoke this morning still carrying that sense of shame. As though, more than having done something wrong, there was something wrong with me, that I would continue in this at all.
Then, I put it out of my mind. I went to church. Communion Sunday.
I smelled them as I walked through the doors of the basement, into the fellowship hall.
The church was full of bearded iris. A moment in which I felt utterly loved.
Then, I headed upstairs to review the service and my role in Communion. And I read the text and I read the prayers and I thought about what it means. A moment in which I felt utterly loved.
For some reason, the complete, holy, and wholly unconditional love communicated by bearded iris and the complete, holy, and wholly unconditional love communicated by Communion brought to mind M. Roger Holland, II.
M. Roger Holland, II is an incredible human being with extraordinary talents and a fierce passion to use those talents to minister to others.
It so happens that Roger's talents and my tastes aren't super meshy. Roger is a musician. At the time I knew him, I hated all music. Roger, who cannot breathe without making music, was confused my hatred for all music, and we sat down one day so I could explain it to him. Roger was filled with compassion and an incredible understanding about my relationship to music. And it saddened him that I had experienced music in the ways that I had, which had led me to so despise it.
Except for one song. Intrigued, Roger asked what song it was, and I shared it with him on a bright October afternoon.
Seven months later, Roger had arranged to serenade me at the annual Gospel Choir Concert with back up vocals, guitar, and cello. This song. This one song. The only song that meant something good and beautiful and lovely to me. Roger got the whole gospel choir behind this, and they pestered me endlessly about attending the concert. None ever gave away what he had planned. It was a complete surprise.
I am loved. The complete, holy, and wholly unconditional love of a friend who simply wanted to use his gifts to bless me in a moment when I was hurting.
With fifteen minutes to go before the service started, I began to cry. Rather uncontrollably. Shame and fear and hurt and humiliation and invalidation. Undergirded by the sense that I was inviting such things to remain in my life. Something must be wrong with me. To know such love; to accept something that is such a poor reflection, and which more and more often hurts me, and which is justified in its hurting by it being "for my own good," surely there is something profoundly wrong with me.
I won't even begin to dissect the abusive reality of that last.
I will, however, write this: BULLSHIT.
Shaming, invalidating, and hurting others when they are hurting and come to us in moments of intense vulnerability is not for their good.
And then....
And then....
Communion Sunday. Bearded iris. Roger. Roger who is one of hundreds who have loved me well.
Still, I do not know what to do. Still, I am lost and confused and hurting.
As I leave the church, carrying all of these ways of love with me, I hear Jesus ask, "Do you want to be made well?" And I remember the last time he asked me this, and what he told me when I responded with an emphatic, "YES!"
"Get up, put a leash on your dog, and take him for a walk." I have a different dog now. And I continue to hold this, faithfully, continuing to trust that while I may not understand, at some point, I will know the path, healing will begin or continue or become more evident.
Each morning, I get up. I put a leash on my dog. I take her for a walk.
And I remember Communion Sunday. I remember bearded iris. I remember M. Roger Holland, II.
I remember that I am completely, holy, and wholly unconditionally loved.
1 Peter 4:8. What the heck does it mean?
I thought I would be able to maintain an emotional distance, but I didn't.
I'm stuck and I don't know how to get out, though I'm fairly sure that getting out is the right and healthy thing to do.
I thought that perhaps I could walk the line very carefully until I had a clear plan, an answer, some idea of what to do. I thought that perhaps emotional vulnerability only happened when I had a need and shared openly.
I was wrong.
 |
| These are the single best smelling flower in all the world |
Very few people know that I love these flowers. Far fewer know why. Only a handful know the significance they came to hold in 2007.
I shared none of this. Just that they had finally bloomed, and how extraordinary was their fragrance, and how sad that the petals had been blown off the three in the neighbor's yard.
Instead of feeling connected, instead of feeling joy and delight in our conversation and in our relationship, I felt empty and ashamed for sharing any part of myself.
And I awoke this morning still carrying that sense of shame. As though, more than having done something wrong, there was something wrong with me, that I would continue in this at all.
Then, I put it out of my mind. I went to church. Communion Sunday.
I smelled them as I walked through the doors of the basement, into the fellowship hall.
The church was full of bearded iris. A moment in which I felt utterly loved.
Then, I headed upstairs to review the service and my role in Communion. And I read the text and I read the prayers and I thought about what it means. A moment in which I felt utterly loved.
 |
| M. Roger Holland, II I stole this from his website, which I genuinely hope he does not mind. |
M. Roger Holland, II is an incredible human being with extraordinary talents and a fierce passion to use those talents to minister to others.
It so happens that Roger's talents and my tastes aren't super meshy. Roger is a musician. At the time I knew him, I hated all music. Roger, who cannot breathe without making music, was confused my hatred for all music, and we sat down one day so I could explain it to him. Roger was filled with compassion and an incredible understanding about my relationship to music. And it saddened him that I had experienced music in the ways that I had, which had led me to so despise it.
Except for one song. Intrigued, Roger asked what song it was, and I shared it with him on a bright October afternoon.
Seven months later, Roger had arranged to serenade me at the annual Gospel Choir Concert with back up vocals, guitar, and cello. This song. This one song. The only song that meant something good and beautiful and lovely to me. Roger got the whole gospel choir behind this, and they pestered me endlessly about attending the concert. None ever gave away what he had planned. It was a complete surprise.
I am loved. The complete, holy, and wholly unconditional love of a friend who simply wanted to use his gifts to bless me in a moment when I was hurting.
With fifteen minutes to go before the service started, I began to cry. Rather uncontrollably. Shame and fear and hurt and humiliation and invalidation. Undergirded by the sense that I was inviting such things to remain in my life. Something must be wrong with me. To know such love; to accept something that is such a poor reflection, and which more and more often hurts me, and which is justified in its hurting by it being "for my own good," surely there is something profoundly wrong with me.
I won't even begin to dissect the abusive reality of that last.
I will, however, write this: BULLSHIT.
Shaming, invalidating, and hurting others when they are hurting and come to us in moments of intense vulnerability is not for their good.
And then....
And then....
Communion Sunday. Bearded iris. Roger. Roger who is one of hundreds who have loved me well.
Still, I do not know what to do. Still, I am lost and confused and hurting.
As I leave the church, carrying all of these ways of love with me, I hear Jesus ask, "Do you want to be made well?" And I remember the last time he asked me this, and what he told me when I responded with an emphatic, "YES!"
"Get up, put a leash on your dog, and take him for a walk." I have a different dog now. And I continue to hold this, faithfully, continuing to trust that while I may not understand, at some point, I will know the path, healing will begin or continue or become more evident.
Each morning, I get up. I put a leash on my dog. I take her for a walk.
And I remember Communion Sunday. I remember bearded iris. I remember M. Roger Holland, II.
I remember that I am completely, holy, and wholly unconditionally loved.
1 Peter 4:8. What the heck does it mean?
Monday, May 6, 2013
Jesus Ate with Dirty Hands
Jesus's disciples ate with dirty hands. We are told in Mark 7:5, "Some of the Pharisees and teachers of the law asked Jesus, 'Why don't your disciples live according to the traditions of the elders instead of eating their food with defiled hands?'" In a culture that was heavy on purity, hospitality, and following the rules, chances are good if the disciples ate with unclean hands, so did Jesus.
Jesus ate with dirty feet. Luke 7:36-47 reads:
Jesus preached a gospel of radical love; a gospel in which all are welcome; a gospel that declares that we come before a throne of GRACE and all of us are on equal footing there; a gospel that declares that none of us must make ourselves "clean enough" before we enter HIS presence; before we eat at HIS table. As though any of us could, by an ablution or any other means, somehow make ourselves pure enough, good enough, holy enough to join Christ in HIS banquet.
Jesus never turned anyone away. Jesus never cast anyone out. Jesus never set out armed guards and barred the doors to the sacrament of God's love and grace and compassion.
Jesus intentionally spent his time, not with the religious elite, the holy men, those who most stringently observed the purity rites of their religion. Jesus intentionally spent his time with fishermen and Samaritans, women and children, prostitutes, tax collectors, sinners, and sluts.
When a church invites sinners, tax collectors, prostitutes, adulterers, pedophiles, and all manner of other people with dirty hands and feet to join them at CHRIST'S banquet table, but they use armed police men to bar entrance and fellowship to homosexuals who must "wash their hands" before entering CHRIST'S church and sharing in fellowship at CHRIST'S table, something is grossly wrong. God's love has been distorted beyond all rationality.
Jesus ate with dirty feet and dirty hands. Why would he expect anything different from us?
Jesus ate with dirty feet. Luke 7:36-47 reads:
When one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, he went to the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.Jesus ate with sinners. Jesus ate with tax collectors. Jesus ate with garden variety whores. Jesus ate with prostitutes. Jesus ate with adulterers.
When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.”
Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.”
“Tell me, teacher,” he said.
“Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?”
Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.”
“You have judged correctly,” Jesus said.
Then he turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”
Jesus preached a gospel of radical love; a gospel in which all are welcome; a gospel that declares that we come before a throne of GRACE and all of us are on equal footing there; a gospel that declares that none of us must make ourselves "clean enough" before we enter HIS presence; before we eat at HIS table. As though any of us could, by an ablution or any other means, somehow make ourselves pure enough, good enough, holy enough to join Christ in HIS banquet.
Jesus never turned anyone away. Jesus never cast anyone out. Jesus never set out armed guards and barred the doors to the sacrament of God's love and grace and compassion.
Jesus intentionally spent his time, not with the religious elite, the holy men, those who most stringently observed the purity rites of their religion. Jesus intentionally spent his time with fishermen and Samaritans, women and children, prostitutes, tax collectors, sinners, and sluts.
When a church invites sinners, tax collectors, prostitutes, adulterers, pedophiles, and all manner of other people with dirty hands and feet to join them at CHRIST'S banquet table, but they use armed police men to bar entrance and fellowship to homosexuals who must "wash their hands" before entering CHRIST'S church and sharing in fellowship at CHRIST'S table, something is grossly wrong. God's love has been distorted beyond all rationality.
Jesus ate with dirty feet and dirty hands. Why would he expect anything different from us?
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