More Bees with Honey than Fire

“There’s a way to do it better – find it.”

~Thomas Edison

In less than two months, I’m getting married. (Yes, in the middle of a plague – exactly as I dreamed) I had grand plans for that day, none of which included a now four-month hiatus from my typical workout routine due to a freak orthopedic injury. (With me, there’s nothing other than freak conditions) Four months (going on FIVE) of little more than physical therapy translated into some weight gain.

PRECISELY what I wanted prior to my WEDDING!

I’ve discussed my on-going battle with body issues. I’d love to say they evaporated with the impending knowledge of countless pictures in a wedding gown, but I’m not a liar. Can you say “daily meltdowns?” I’ve harrassed my physical therapist for weeks to let me go back to kickboxing, knowing it’ll burn the most calories. He’s firmly refused. The most I’ve received permission for is walking and LIGHT exercise.

What’s a girl to do?!

After breaking down in a monumental way (and considering bludgeoning my fiance’ with the scale when he mentioned how much weight he’s lost through quarantine), I reached out to a friend who coaches an exercise program. Turns out barre doesn’t irritate my stupid hip excessively. It doesn’t grant the calorie burn of my beloved HIIT kickboxing, but it ranks above walking around the neighborhood.

I was hesitant about agreeing to the program. (Ticking clock and fucking bathroom scale and all) See, I’ve been down this road before, and it was the worst experience of my life. Not because of the exercise or diet – those are nothing big. No, it boiled down to the way the program decided to motivate you. Because, let’s face it, exercise doesn’t work without motivation. Eating right doesn’t happen without motivation. And while I’m the first to admit everyone reacts to prodding in different ways, I firmly believe there’s a right way to do it and a WRONG way.

The majority of people don’t join such programs because they like the way they look. No, we HATE some aspect of ourselves. Maybe it’s everything. Or it could just be our knees, our legs, our arms. Whatever – something needs work. For people like me, if you gave us the chance to blow the whole thing up and start again, we’d sign on the line. Depression has corrupted the way we view ourselves in the mirror. Society reinforces that twisted sight every day, crushing us under constant negativity.

Fucking heaven forbid you even LOOK at a doughnut!

So why the hell would you FORCE such people to post images of themselves? Why would you claim that it’s a NEED in order to improve and lose weight? How does that accomplish anything? As one of those people, let me clarify loud and clear, it does the complete OPPOSITE! It motivates me to throw on as many layers of clothing as possible and hide in a corner. Because even the THOUGHT of someone else seeing such an image throws my anxiety into overdrive. I can HEAR the laughter and ridicule. And now I need a banana split to soothe my sobbing psyche.

You don’t motivate people that way. That’s something people need to make a choice about on their own. When they feel safe, confident, proud. People may NEVER feel that way, depending on how their brain is wired. Being a Nazi about things and barking orders and demands is not how you motivate everyone. It doesn’t uplift people who are more fragile. Some of us have trauma buried inside, and the nasty edge pushes us further into our walls. It’s never going to bring us out.

And when I dared to speak up, I got slapped in the face for it.

The usual pattern I’d come to expect. Disheartening isn’t a strong enough word. And then, throughout this summer, I had to sit and watch my fiance’ enganging with my kickboxing crew without me. THEY are an example of how to motivate properly. Probably why it hurt so much. Instead of beating people down or barking at them, they encourage the best in a person. They never ask for more than you have to give. They’ve built up a determination and belief in myself I didn’t realize I had (which is why I didn’t completely crash after the Nazi bitch got ahold of me).

My fiance’ started going to classes while I was in physical therapy. He felt it lessened the blow to me, eased my depression. I got supportive messages from the class instructors, telling me they missed me, and asking how things were going. I WANTED to hear those encouraging words in every class. I still want to be there, to get the drive to be better than I was the last class. They’re always beside us, working with us. The message is positive, affirming, and when you can’t do something, there’s a reassurance you’ll get there. The motivation is 100 times better.

But I’m not allowed back yet, not for at least another month.

Imagine my fear and terror at trying another exercise program. My hands were shaking when I talked with my friend. I had to force my teeth not to clench. My stomach was so nauseous, I had to consider reaching for one of my precious stock of Zofran. (Can we say trauma reaction?) I was ready for more of the same. But I needed some kind of framework. Trying to piece things together on my own wasn’t working. I told myself I trusted her.

My trust paid off. The positive motivation mirrors what I get from kickboxing. There’s no demand for anything. There’s gentle encouragement, promises that if I can’t balance today, I will down the road. (I want to laugh since my ankles are atrocious, but it’s nice to hear) It’s the kind of motivation someone with a fragile body image needs to hear. No threats that if I don’t do something, I’ll fail. Just encouragement to keep trying. No demands that I cut this, this, and this from my diet. Suggestions on what to eat, and if I happen to have a cupcake, it’s not the end of the world.

I get to be a human being. And I’m acknowledged as a human being. Better, I’m seen as a human being with bruises and tender spots. I don’t have to be a brick wall bracing for the cannon ball. To me, that makes all of the difference.

Mirror, Mirror

Warning: Reflections in this mirror may be distorted by socially construed ideas of beauty.

My favorite time of year: resolution time; that glorious period when everyone spews list of changes that they intend to make and which end up being kept for all of, on average, five days. Most of those fantastic claims center around the body: attending the gym more frequently, eating better, attempting one (or more) fad diets that have yet to be discredited by science. And why not? It’s not as if our entire social culture were structured around norms of expectations of beauty, right? Oh, wait, it is. We have entire channels of YouTube that explain how to contour your face, dress appropriately for your age, shop thriftily so you can emulate the looks of the stars. Don’t get me started on what you can find on Instagram (and, yes, I’m old enough that I had to research both because I don’t actually utilize either one on a regular basis).

I don’t believe in resolutions, in general, but I really avoid the ones in relation to the body. Why? Because I have major body image issues, the same as most other people who suffer from depression. The crazy part is that I probably shouldn’t, at least according to logic. After all, I weigh a solid 100 pounds less now than I did even ten years ago when I was in a terrible relationship; that equates to 10 sizes smaller (and the real annoyance of having to buy new clothes every time I lost a significant amount of weight). Instead of reveling in the loss, though, I freaked out. I kept pushing against newly-appeared bones and ligaments, trying to figure out what in the world the protrusions were; I ended up with a lot of bruises. And I continued to avoid mirrors at all costs – because I still saw the same girl in the mirror as always.

And I still do.

This past year, everyone was posting their 10-year challenge photos to show the difference a decade can make. Now, I hate having my picture taken (see above in case you were under some delusion as to why that might be), but I finally caved to the pressure and found an old picture as well as one from this summer. It was the first time I was able to see the difference in weight, mostly because the evidence was sitting in front of me. The shock was overwhelming, but the bigger shock was walking to the bedroom, looking in the mirror and seeing that same enormous hippo staring back at me. Nothing had changed, not even moments after glimpsing the truth! My mind insisted that I was still an unattractive blimp. All of the broken thinking came right back: the taunting from school, the embarrassment from the playground (you know – when no one else can lift you on the see-saw?), the humiliation of walking past women your own age as you go to the Plus section while they traipse to the Juniors section, all while your much thinner friends insisted that size is just a number and prance around in crop tops, skinny jeans, and bikinis. So I put my sweats on and went back to avoiding the mirror – standard procedure.

The grip that thinking has on a person is insane. I’ve continued to lose weight, I’ve toned my arms and legs some more, and I STILL see the same horrible image in the mirror. Every now and then, I catch a brief glimpse of someone else, but I don’t know who she is. And the really crazy thing is, if I just look at my arm or my leg, I see changes (we won’t talk about my stomach – that’s insanity); but the entire picture…it falls apart. Trying to rewire my thinking has failed every attempt I’ve made. Those hurtful remarks are embedded deep in my psyche, along with every rejection.

If I were to consider making any resolution this coming year, it would be to root out all of those horrible sentiments and banish them from my way of thinking. Because, honestly, I would really like to look in the mirror and at least see MYSELF, as I am.