I’ve put on weight. Like a fair bit. For real tho.
That pic makes me wanna weep. In March I was still grappling with my diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder. I’d just begun to barely pull myself out of the worst depression of my life, one that had threatened to derail my career in Nov-Jan. My relationship with Hickster was a toxic destructive mess. I’d recently quit my dance team, and was experiencing semi-frequent episodes of cognitive distortion. I had lost a lot of weight from unhappiness. But I looked good. And I clung onto that notion like a life raft.
Since June, I am better. I am seeing the colors. I am also almost 15lbs heavier than I was in March. This is the heaviest I have been in years. As I am doing better, my career is back on track, and I’ve even been recently promoted, yay. But as a result, I have trouble working out 1-2x a week, I rarely go dancing, and my primary food group is candy and alcohol. Bad habits like stress eating are resurfacing. I am no longer anything close to being an athlete.
I look at that pic, and I feel shame. Because the weight represents the emotional burden of these past few months. I survived mentally, but there was a huge cost. And it manifests itself, in part, in a damaged body. I look at that pic and I see that I’ve let myself go, that I’ve stopped taking care of myself. I don’t believe anymore that I am beautiful. I feel worn out by all that life has thrown my way in 2018. I am ashamed that it shows.
But… this is not my first rodeo with body self-hatred (see reading list below), I know that this shame is self-imposed. It doesn’t correspond to how the outside world sees me. So even when I feel DISGUSTING, bloated and distended and almost deformed, I don’t let that stop me from slipping on a figure hugging outfit and going dancing. I want to stay home and hide under a tent, but I don’t let myself do so. That would be letting my sick brain win, and fuck off brain, I’ve too much pride for that.
When I saw those pics, I was horrified. I looked pregnant. I remember that night. I’ve been having digestive issues caused in equal parts by the lack of veggies in my diet, the industrial quantities of candy and also the spike in stress. It makes for a… “congested” combo, let’s just say. It’s one thing to feel icky plogged, it’s a whole other thing to look icky plogged. I blush with shame when I see those pics.
Except… I got SO many compliments from the dudes that night. My curves were not perceived as a bad thing, at all.
So even though I feel completely uncomfortable in my body, I know a lot of it is in my head. If I go out and force myself to dance, to put aside the vicious hateful voices in my head that tell me I am repulsive and gross and lazy and undisciplined, and let myself connect to my dance partners, I can find moments of freedom and joy. One dance at a time.
Maybe that is real acceptance? Acknowledging that the current state is not ideal, but not letting it stop me from doing what I love.
Acceptance is fucking hard, apparently.
Previous thoughts on body-image:
- April 2015: That time I went bathing suit shopping… and came home with a book
- March 2016: That time I stopped being a cripple
- March 2016: A form of freedom
- May 2016: A highly accurate, scientific comparison of weight loss prep between male and female boxers
- July 2016: Body image mind-fucks
- Aug 2016: Accepting the sexy
- Sept 2016: Try keep up
- Nov 2016: Learning to enjoy being a girl
- Jan 2017: Holiday diet vs January diet
- Feb 2017: Mirrors and space
- March 2017: First time on a beach
- May 2017: Dancefloor drama, part II
- Oct 2017: 5 years ago my life changed
- Jan 2018: A beautiful pivot
- Jan 2018: Beauty and ginga in Paris
- Feb 2018: Dancefloor drama V: an irrelevant question of weight