I've had glasses since 3rd grade. I remember the day I got them as clear as a bell. It was third grade (which probably meant I was 9.) and I was in Mrs. Carel's class. I loved Mrs. Carel. She was young and cool, tall and pretty, athletic and outgoing. She had a laugh that filled up the room and a smile to follow. Everyone wanted her for a teacher. She did such fun things in the class room. It was more like being in an amusement park instead of school. We practiced spelling words in shaving cream on our desks and I think we even used chocolate pudding once... That was amazing.
Anyway, the day I got my glasses...
My appointment was first thing in the morning which meant I was going to be tardy to school. I hated being tardy for any reason. If I was ever tardy I would always come to class having this odd feeling that something great happened minutes before I got there and I missed out on it and all of the kids wouldn't tell me what it was so I was left out. (Sometimes I still feel that way.) It was a terrible feeling.
So I already knew it was going to be a bad day simply because I was tardy. But today, I had the added pressure of my new glasses. This was the kiss of death. It was a long walk to the class room with the slip from the secretary in the office with my excuse. The closer I got to the door, the more the anxiety grew. These things on my face were uncomfortable. They kept slipping down and pinching my nose.
My plan was to get in the classroom as fast as I could and slip into my desk and hopefully not be noticed. I opened the door as quietly as I could, ditched my book bag and coat, and slithered into my desk and put my head down. (Almost as if I was being punished.) As far as I could tell, my plan worked perfectly. I sat there in silence with my face burrowed into my elbow, breathing as quietly as possible. I was victorious! (or so I thought) After what felt like an eternity I picked up my head and looked around to see if anyone saw me come in. My glasses were fogged from my hot breath! Blasted! I could see very little but what I did see was her; she was standing at the front of my desk, hovering, waiting. As I looked up, through my foggy lenses, I saw her big bright smile. I don't know why but immediately I burst into tears and buried my face again. She was so sweet.
She bent down beside me, rubbed my head and whispered, "You look beautiful!"
I cleared the snot from my nose, wiped the tears off my face and looked at her again. "Really?" I whispered.
"Really." She replied. She went on, "Class, Julie has something very special to share with us today. Today, she got her first pair of glasses."
I was mortified but she urged me to stand and show everyone. So I did. With Mrs. Carel standing beside me I could face my peers and show them how beautiful I looked with my new glasses. After all, she said herself that I was beautiful and that meant the world to me. I loved my glasses from then on. (Which only lasted until I was 11. From then on it was contact lenses.) And to my recollection I don't know that anyone ever called me four eyes. I don't know that it never happened but I think because of Mrs. Carel's reassurance of my beauty that day, I never even noticed any insults from my peers.
And today I wanted to face another childhood memory head on; swimming in a public pool in a bathing suit. To any fat child this is hell, drenched in water. Oh the agony of having to strip down and put on a bathing suit that showed ALL of your lumps and bumps! And then have all of your peers get to see you and possibly mock and make fun of you? It makes me want to puke just thinking about it! And in my school district every child had to do it, period end of story.
So this morning I woke up and wondered, "what should I do today?" and after a bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee it came to me clear as day, today I was going to swim.
When I was young I LOVED to swim but only felt completely free to do it at my own home or at a trusted friend's house. I was so excited when we had a pool put in our back yard. If I remember right that was the summer going into sixth grade and I wanted to have all of my friends over for a pool party to celebrate on the last day of school. It was the funnest day I can remember. I spent the entire summer in that pool with my sister or the neighborhood kids. Honestly, I don't think there wasn't a day that I wasn't in that pool. I felt at home in the water. When I was in there, I was weightless and graceful. I could do hand stands underwater (Lord knows that would never happen on the ground.), make up beautiful ballet moves, and float on my back with all the sounds around me canceled out. It was peaceful, and my place to escape.
Through life circumstances we moved out of the house with the pool. My days of swimming freely, at home, where over.
As I got older the, more I started to hate my body. By the time I was 13, the idea of getting in a bathing suit was a joke. I laughed when my friends would suggest a birthday party at the city pool, as if I was too cool for that. Secretly, I longed to be weightless and graceful again. Once or twice I might have put on a pair of shorts and tank top and slip into some water somewhere. It was never the same though. I hated the fact that I was fat: the grace and weightlessness where gone.
But today was a day to reclaim that love and dream of mine. I announced my intentions on the Internet as a safety net so I couldn't talk myself out of it. I checked the schedule at the YMCA and then was off to buy a suit to swim in.
When I got to the locker room at the Y and smelled the chlorine, the terror set in. As I looked around I saw all kinds of bodies of varying shapes, sizes, and colors. Some where old and flabby, and others where young and taut. I didn't dare stare because I didn't want anyone else to possibly feel insecure by my looking at them. I decided to keep my eyes to the floor. While changing into my suit was a lot of positive self talking and very little looking at myself in the mirror. I didn't want to see what I was sure everyone else could and did see, my round squishy body with lumps and bumps for all to see.
The plan was to leave my contacts in and wear goggles but man, those things hurt my face! They suctioned to me and didn't want to let go. No goggles. They had to go. So the contacts came out which meant everything from there on out was going to be a big blur. I wasn't too excited about that but I didn't want to turn back now.
Bathing suit on, contacts out, hair in a pony tail, towel covering me up. Deep breaths. I was ready for this. However, I didn't anticipate that I was going to have to drop my towel pool side and slither into the water. That was the hardest thing I had to do. But I did it. And the only way I did it was because I couldn't see if the other swimmers in the water were watching or not. There were just too fuzzy. I could sort of tell if their head was turned in my general direction but I had no idea what their eyes were on. The only person I knew was looking at me was the lifeguard. I can't blame her, it's her job to make sure we are safe.
It was like heaven. I swam for over an hour. Breast stroke, back stroke, butterfly... it all came right back to me. I did underwater handstands, kicked and moved my body in ways that I had long since forgotten. I was weightless and graceful again.
As I was changing in the locker room I decided that people are not watching me as closely as I think they are. Mostly when they look they aren't seeing me with 20/20 vision of judgement like I assumed. Everyone is too busy wrapping themselves in a towel, hoping their lumps and bumps won't be seen by the rest of us. So I stepped back from the mirror, still with no contacts, and looked at the girl with the squishy body. I think I finally got it. I was the only one looking at myself with 20/20 vision of judgement and criticism, shame and disgust.
And in that moment tears came. Not tears of sorrow or sadness, but tears of love and acceptance of my own self. Tears that whispered, "You look beautiful." and a heart that finally agreed.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Friday, March 6, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Please proceed with caution. This is not for the faint of heart.
I have been waiting for almost a week to post this blog. It is deeply personal but with a message that I want to share.
I have been fat my whole life. I just saw a class picture from kindergarten and I was the largest child in the picture. I probably weighed 25 pounds more than any of my class mates, including the boys. When you are 6 years old, that is traumatic. I have endured ridicule and shame my entire life. I can remember the face of every person who called me names, I can remember feeling pain that was so deep and penetrating. I can remember feeling like a part of me died every time I was teased about being fat. Even now, as I write, those memories are so vivid. As a 6 year old girl I couldn't understand why I was fat and others were slim. I couldn't understand why it mattered so much that I was bigger than any one else. I played at recess just like the rest of the kids... In my eyes, I was no different. In their eyes, I was disgusting. Over time I began to see myself as they saw me, unacceptable, unlovable, and of no value. People can be so cruel to each other.
I have felt such shame about my weight. I have felt as though I have had less value as a person, no hope to be truly loved by anyone, and that I was destined to be a prisoner in this body that was suffocating me. I have found ways to cope and not let the despair crush me. My sense of humor had become my defense. I learned very quickly that it was much more effective to make people laugh with me instead of at me. I was mostly happy but when the sadness and hopelessness came, it was unbelievable as well as unbearable.
Little did I know, , I was going to be diagnosed with a condition called Polycystic Ovarian Syndrom.
PCOS is a complicated issue that is caused by a hormone imbalance. The symptoms are humiliating and the possible problems that can develop from it are horrifying. Obesity, diabetes, infertility, and cancer are just a few of the problems that can come from PCOS.
I began dieting at the age of 12. First it was Jenny Craig and then Weight Watchers. My success was marginal at best. I would lose maybe 10 pounds. This caused more shame, more self hatred, more hopelessness. My anger was raging. I hated my life. I hated my family. I hated myself. I knew the comfort eating was what was making me fatter but I could not stop. It made no sense. The only conclusion I could come up with was that I was a defective human being and that God was cruel to make me this way.
We didn't know it but I was showing signs of PCOS starting around the age of 12, around the time puberty hits. At that time our family was enduring a tremendous amount of stress and it was assumed that the physical issues I was struggling with were because of our family situation. I had mood swings to an extreme. I was overweight, gaining more weight, and then relying on food to comfort the pain I was feeling. Even though I was a moderately active young person, I continued to gain weight which made the depression worse which made me want to eat more... it was a cycle that was more than vicious. As a teen girl, I was deeply depressed and at one point attempted suicide.
It wasn't until after High School that things started to make sense. My mom had watched an episode of Oprah and it was about PCOS. I remember her telling me that I had all the symptoms they talked about. FINALLY, I thought, there was an answer to the reason why I was fat, had body hair, no periods, and was so moody. I quickly made an appointment with a doctor in Federal Way who specialised in PCOS and felt hopeful for some relief.
She "diagnosed" me just by looking at me. She did no blood tests and barely even listened as I poured my heart out about the pain and shame I have felt for so long about my body. Even though infertility is a symptom of PCOS, she seemed unconcerned about that. She told me, "You are only 18. You aren't trying to have kids are you? All I can do for you right now is give you birth control. Call me when you think you want to have kids, we'll talk then."
I remember driving back to work after my appointment and all I could do was cry. How could she be so cruel? Did she find me disgusting and unvaluable, too? For months, I mourned over the loss of my dream to have children. I mourned over the loss of hope to ever have a normal body. I mourned over the dream to be loved and known by someone. Every dream I had for my life I quickly buried. I believed that I was destined to be trapped in my body. I had no hope for anything better.
To tell you about the next 11 years of my life would take more time than I have today to type this.
I will tell you, though, that I learned how to cope. I began telling myself things to cope with the pain I felt because of my situation. I became outgoing, funny, hospitable, overly anxious to please people even at the expense of what I really wanted. It seemed that this would be the only way to gain acceptance. I gave up myself to others. I found a way to become a person that others could enjoy. I was doing everything to scrape some type of life and future together. It was all I could do to maintain any glimmer of happiness or reason to live. And even though others came to love and accept me, I still had a deep hatred towards myself.
Over time, my symptoms have gotten worse. I might not be as depressed as I was, but the physical symptoms were catching up with me. It wasn't until 3 weeks ago that something happened and I finally thought I should see a doctor for a second opinion. (Please, PLEASE do not wait 11 years to get a second opinion.)
I found a doctor in Tacoma who treats women with PCOS. My appointment was last Friday, February 6th 2009. That day will forever be the day I got my life back. February 6th was the day that someone finally cared enough to hear me, to listen, to cry with me, to give me hope for a normal life and body. She uttered the words I've wanted to hear for so long. She told me that it wasn't my fault. I still can't believe that it's true. I have lived for 20+ years believing that I was fat because I was a bad person, because there was something wrong with me. She went into great detail explaining to me the ins-and-outs of PCOS and hormone imbalance and how it effects your ENTIRE BODY and ENTIRE LIFE if it is untreated. She explained that I have hope to lose weight and that no amount of dieting I could have done in my life would have taken the weight off.
I am still waiting to hear back about my blood work before I can begin to take any kind of medicine for treatment. I haven't lost a single pound on the outside of me but the woman on the inside is thin, happy, and fully of energy. I am no longer suffocating.
Thank you for reading my story. Thank you for taking the time to understand. If you have questions, I will answer them. If you have encouragement, I will receive it.
I am okay. I am lovable. I have hope to live the life I was meant to live.
I have been fat my whole life. I just saw a class picture from kindergarten and I was the largest child in the picture. I probably weighed 25 pounds more than any of my class mates, including the boys. When you are 6 years old, that is traumatic. I have endured ridicule and shame my entire life. I can remember the face of every person who called me names, I can remember feeling pain that was so deep and penetrating. I can remember feeling like a part of me died every time I was teased about being fat. Even now, as I write, those memories are so vivid. As a 6 year old girl I couldn't understand why I was fat and others were slim. I couldn't understand why it mattered so much that I was bigger than any one else. I played at recess just like the rest of the kids... In my eyes, I was no different. In their eyes, I was disgusting. Over time I began to see myself as they saw me, unacceptable, unlovable, and of no value. People can be so cruel to each other.
I have felt such shame about my weight. I have felt as though I have had less value as a person, no hope to be truly loved by anyone, and that I was destined to be a prisoner in this body that was suffocating me. I have found ways to cope and not let the despair crush me. My sense of humor had become my defense. I learned very quickly that it was much more effective to make people laugh with me instead of at me. I was mostly happy but when the sadness and hopelessness came, it was unbelievable as well as unbearable.
Little did I know, , I was going to be diagnosed with a condition called Polycystic Ovarian Syndrom.
PCOS is a complicated issue that is caused by a hormone imbalance. The symptoms are humiliating and the possible problems that can develop from it are horrifying. Obesity, diabetes, infertility, and cancer are just a few of the problems that can come from PCOS.
I began dieting at the age of 12. First it was Jenny Craig and then Weight Watchers. My success was marginal at best. I would lose maybe 10 pounds. This caused more shame, more self hatred, more hopelessness. My anger was raging. I hated my life. I hated my family. I hated myself. I knew the comfort eating was what was making me fatter but I could not stop. It made no sense. The only conclusion I could come up with was that I was a defective human being and that God was cruel to make me this way.
We didn't know it but I was showing signs of PCOS starting around the age of 12, around the time puberty hits. At that time our family was enduring a tremendous amount of stress and it was assumed that the physical issues I was struggling with were because of our family situation. I had mood swings to an extreme. I was overweight, gaining more weight, and then relying on food to comfort the pain I was feeling. Even though I was a moderately active young person, I continued to gain weight which made the depression worse which made me want to eat more... it was a cycle that was more than vicious. As a teen girl, I was deeply depressed and at one point attempted suicide.
It wasn't until after High School that things started to make sense. My mom had watched an episode of Oprah and it was about PCOS. I remember her telling me that I had all the symptoms they talked about. FINALLY, I thought, there was an answer to the reason why I was fat, had body hair, no periods, and was so moody. I quickly made an appointment with a doctor in Federal Way who specialised in PCOS and felt hopeful for some relief.
She "diagnosed" me just by looking at me. She did no blood tests and barely even listened as I poured my heart out about the pain and shame I have felt for so long about my body. Even though infertility is a symptom of PCOS, she seemed unconcerned about that. She told me, "You are only 18. You aren't trying to have kids are you? All I can do for you right now is give you birth control. Call me when you think you want to have kids, we'll talk then."
I remember driving back to work after my appointment and all I could do was cry. How could she be so cruel? Did she find me disgusting and unvaluable, too? For months, I mourned over the loss of my dream to have children. I mourned over the loss of hope to ever have a normal body. I mourned over the dream to be loved and known by someone. Every dream I had for my life I quickly buried. I believed that I was destined to be trapped in my body. I had no hope for anything better.
To tell you about the next 11 years of my life would take more time than I have today to type this.
I will tell you, though, that I learned how to cope. I began telling myself things to cope with the pain I felt because of my situation. I became outgoing, funny, hospitable, overly anxious to please people even at the expense of what I really wanted. It seemed that this would be the only way to gain acceptance. I gave up myself to others. I found a way to become a person that others could enjoy. I was doing everything to scrape some type of life and future together. It was all I could do to maintain any glimmer of happiness or reason to live. And even though others came to love and accept me, I still had a deep hatred towards myself.
Over time, my symptoms have gotten worse. I might not be as depressed as I was, but the physical symptoms were catching up with me. It wasn't until 3 weeks ago that something happened and I finally thought I should see a doctor for a second opinion. (Please, PLEASE do not wait 11 years to get a second opinion.)
I found a doctor in Tacoma who treats women with PCOS. My appointment was last Friday, February 6th 2009. That day will forever be the day I got my life back. February 6th was the day that someone finally cared enough to hear me, to listen, to cry with me, to give me hope for a normal life and body. She uttered the words I've wanted to hear for so long. She told me that it wasn't my fault. I still can't believe that it's true. I have lived for 20+ years believing that I was fat because I was a bad person, because there was something wrong with me. She went into great detail explaining to me the ins-and-outs of PCOS and hormone imbalance and how it effects your ENTIRE BODY and ENTIRE LIFE if it is untreated. She explained that I have hope to lose weight and that no amount of dieting I could have done in my life would have taken the weight off.
I am still waiting to hear back about my blood work before I can begin to take any kind of medicine for treatment. I haven't lost a single pound on the outside of me but the woman on the inside is thin, happy, and fully of energy. I am no longer suffocating.
Thank you for reading my story. Thank you for taking the time to understand. If you have questions, I will answer them. If you have encouragement, I will receive it.
I am okay. I am lovable. I have hope to live the life I was meant to live.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
If I had a million dollars
I'd be rich!
Now that I am aware of this particular part of my personality, my frustration has made so much more sense.
When I was a little girl (maybe 8 or 9) I remember my Dad taking me with him to the lumber yard that my Grandpa Rex owned (Copeland Lumber). I don't remember many of the details of that specific trip other than my Dad's purchase of some fine pieces of pine lumber that he was going to be using for one of his many creations.
Dad was a working man despite his physical setbacks. A veteran of the Vietnam war found him back in the States and partially paralyzed. That didn't hold Dad back though, he spent most of his time in the garage which doubled as his wood shop. There was a chop saw, a jig saw, and a band saw. All of which he used to make many different wood works. I remember, he used to make rocking chairs and ironing boards that converted into a step stool. Dad was the carpenter, Mom was the toll painter. Together they made pieces of furniture that they would sell at local craft fairs.
This wasn't my first time to the lumber yard. I would often go with Dad while he carefully inspected various sizes of wood, carefully looking down their length to make sure there wasn't too much of a bend or bow in it. After the perfect pieces of wood were chosen, Dad would take load them, and me, into the truck and head to our home far from town but not until we made a special trip to McDonald's for a happy meal and a little one-on-one time eating it in the parking lot.
Back to this particular trip to the lumber yard. I remember as I was waiting by the cash register for everything to be finished up seeing this bundle of picket fence posts. I decided right then and there that I needed to have that bundle of 24 inch posts and that I was going to create something wonderful and exciting just like Mom and Dad did. And even though I had no idea what I was going to use them for, bless his heart, Dad bought me the posts to make begging and whining stop. What 8 year old girl begs her dad for a bundle of wood? Apparently, I do.
When I got home, I immediately knew what I was going to do with my new purchase. I found scraps of wood from Dad's shop, drug them out into the yard, and built a fort. I then took my picket posts and a hammer and made a perimeter fence around my new home. I liked the idea of having my own special, secret place to go. Even though it wasn't a realistic structure that had much function, it was mine, I made it with my own hands, and it was magical to me. I played in my own special place for days and days until I found a new item that beckoned my creative brain to bring it to new life.
The fort and fence stayed standing for about a week even though I found it to be rather boring now that there was something new to do. Eventually Dad took it down so he could mow the lawn and I can't say it hurt my feelings.
Tonight I found myself dreaming about Merida Yucatan in Mexico and I realised that my life has had so many incidences of picket fence posts. It's not bad or wrong to create something and then move on. I don't have to camp out or live there. It can be temporary for me.
I am not moving to Mexico. Though I found myself looking at homes online and wondering what wonderful thing could I create from these raw, rustic homes in a beautiful, vibrant city? What kind of special place would be waiting for me? The more I dreamed, the more I longed for it.
I retrospect, I really didn't need the picket fence posts. But the idea of leaving that lumber yard without them crushed me. I just knew that if I didn't get that wood home to my house, I would miss out on the chance to have something great.
But now I am learning that I don't have to act on every dream and idea that comes to mind and it is okay to leave them there, for someone else to discover. In my own addiction, I must pray my own prayer of serenity:
God grant me the serenity
to dream the dreams You have given me;
courage to chase the ones I should;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Amen
Homes currently for sale in Merida,Yucatan Mexico:
Now that I am aware of this particular part of my personality, my frustration has made so much more sense.
When I was a little girl (maybe 8 or 9) I remember my Dad taking me with him to the lumber yard that my Grandpa Rex owned (Copeland Lumber). I don't remember many of the details of that specific trip other than my Dad's purchase of some fine pieces of pine lumber that he was going to be using for one of his many creations.
Dad was a working man despite his physical setbacks. A veteran of the Vietnam war found him back in the States and partially paralyzed. That didn't hold Dad back though, he spent most of his time in the garage which doubled as his wood shop. There was a chop saw, a jig saw, and a band saw. All of which he used to make many different wood works. I remember, he used to make rocking chairs and ironing boards that converted into a step stool. Dad was the carpenter, Mom was the toll painter. Together they made pieces of furniture that they would sell at local craft fairs.
This wasn't my first time to the lumber yard. I would often go with Dad while he carefully inspected various sizes of wood, carefully looking down their length to make sure there wasn't too much of a bend or bow in it. After the perfect pieces of wood were chosen, Dad would take load them, and me, into the truck and head to our home far from town but not until we made a special trip to McDonald's for a happy meal and a little one-on-one time eating it in the parking lot.
Back to this particular trip to the lumber yard. I remember as I was waiting by the cash register for everything to be finished up seeing this bundle of picket fence posts. I decided right then and there that I needed to have that bundle of 24 inch posts and that I was going to create something wonderful and exciting just like Mom and Dad did. And even though I had no idea what I was going to use them for, bless his heart, Dad bought me the posts to make begging and whining stop. What 8 year old girl begs her dad for a bundle of wood? Apparently, I do.
When I got home, I immediately knew what I was going to do with my new purchase. I found scraps of wood from Dad's shop, drug them out into the yard, and built a fort. I then took my picket posts and a hammer and made a perimeter fence around my new home. I liked the idea of having my own special, secret place to go. Even though it wasn't a realistic structure that had much function, it was mine, I made it with my own hands, and it was magical to me. I played in my own special place for days and days until I found a new item that beckoned my creative brain to bring it to new life.
The fort and fence stayed standing for about a week even though I found it to be rather boring now that there was something new to do. Eventually Dad took it down so he could mow the lawn and I can't say it hurt my feelings.
Tonight I found myself dreaming about Merida Yucatan in Mexico and I realised that my life has had so many incidences of picket fence posts. It's not bad or wrong to create something and then move on. I don't have to camp out or live there. It can be temporary for me.
I am not moving to Mexico. Though I found myself looking at homes online and wondering what wonderful thing could I create from these raw, rustic homes in a beautiful, vibrant city? What kind of special place would be waiting for me? The more I dreamed, the more I longed for it.
I retrospect, I really didn't need the picket fence posts. But the idea of leaving that lumber yard without them crushed me. I just knew that if I didn't get that wood home to my house, I would miss out on the chance to have something great.
But now I am learning that I don't have to act on every dream and idea that comes to mind and it is okay to leave them there, for someone else to discover. In my own addiction, I must pray my own prayer of serenity:
God grant me the serenity
to dream the dreams You have given me;
courage to chase the ones I should;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Amen
Homes currently for sale in Merida,Yucatan Mexico:
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