Here we go again. Except this time, now, it's different.
I was down to 253- a significant achievement, for me. Then all the stress of the workplace took its toll and then something snapped inside of me and I started thinking I deserved more food again- because, after all, I was going through a tough time, then I was in transition, then I was in yet another crappy job and it just seemed logical that I would take a little extra, have a little more to get through.
But now, things are okay. More than okay. We're buying a house. Kevin and I will actually live in a house- sure it's not perfection (it was almost HALF A MILLION DOLLARS but the real estate market here is nuts). But it's a house. My house. Our house. And it's adorable and so perfect in so many ways.
I have wanted a house for so, so long. Since I was kid I wanted a house, a nice, middle class-ish house that didn't have embarassing details like a water sodden kitchen cieling that was about to burst. I wanted a tidy place that was snug and had lots of little details that made it special. And now, I have that. And for some reason it's sending me running to the kitchen every five minutes. It's making me feel dizzy and confused in ways I don't understand.
I know that I want the house.
And I know that I like the house. But I'm afraid to say I love it because.... Hmm, because why? Because part of me thinks I don't deserve the house. That I just kind of lucked out. My logical side says sweetie, you live in a crazy market and you still are getting a house because you have, on paper anyway, a good job for around here, luck has nothing to do with it. But I can't shake this feeling that I'm a fraud and don't deserve to live in such a nice, tidy place... that it's really mine. (and ING's). Kev's parents were a nightmare about it and I felt as if I derserved to be treated like that, while simultaneously wanting to slap his father in the face, hard.
But it's not just me. Kev has been all turned around, too. He's been just as bad as me with wanting food and when one of us works late or even looks like they might be tempted to eat something in large qunatities the other one of us jumps at the chance.
We both just feel hugely ambivilent. He's been running a lot so of course, it doesn't show on his body, but I have gained 15 pounds, so I'm not only hugely ambivelent, I'm just huger than I've been in a long time. And I don't like that.
And there's the work life balance sitch. I took this job so that I wouldn't be busting my ass after 4:30 pm. And right now, I have been getting home on time most days. But this is a recognizable lull. I know it will start to suck again any day now. Though I don't want it too.
I was at a freinds' last night and I was conveying all of this and she said: You have to take care of yourself, no one else is going to do it for you. It's not exactly news, but somehow I found it comforting coming from her. As if she was giving me permission, the permission I have desperately needed, to take care of myself again. To feel like I should take care of myself again.
And I think that lack of wanting to take care of myself, or feeling safe taking care of myself stems from the whole maggot situation.
I had finally lost a lot of weight and although I still remained very fat by societys standards I had accomplished something I never thought I was capable of- in a very healthy, safe way. And I was ecstatic with all the new clothes and newness of how much everything was different, and yet the same... but better. I walked faster, I could see the contours of my face, I felt like I was more a part of the world, I could try on jeans at Old Navy.
And that confidence was alluring to maggot and he sensed my readiness to embrace my looks and so he complimented me. And for me, that combined with his subsequent behaviour is enough to make me feel uncomfortable with body all over again. To somehow blame it for getting me noticed.
I remember in years past when I wrote in my journal I always said I hated being noticed (but I love being noticed for my perosnality). And he noticed me. Not a lot but it was enough to make me doubt myself all these months. I always have this fear, because of what happened during childhood that confidence in my body and comfort with myself is a great way to get noticed which in turn is a great way to get violated. And when he did violate my private sphere it just reinforced that belief.
So now I really have to acknowledge that maggot hurt my sense of safety and that it did falter my very new and shaky sense of confidence and comfort in my body. And then combining that with crappy hours and a lack of exercise is just compounding the situation. And frankly, it's justifying my mistreatment of myself: If I deserved to be pampered with exercise and good food at regular intervals than all the elements in my life would line up to allow for that.
And since that's not happening and I keep trying to bring it into focus I feel like I'm in a very begative loop.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
As always
All of this would be a lot simpler if I knew how it would end.
Will I be the girl who lost 100+ pounds, will I change from the outside and finally be able to wear clothes from any store I step into? Or will I linger and hover here- a new place to be sure, acceptably fat, but not quite where I want to be.
Where do I want to be. I used to think being a size 18 would be just right. And then this year I reached that (though I'm no longer able to claim that since the career crisis of Spring) and while I was there it was heady at first, I could almost fit into clothes at the gap, I could get my legs in the pants and they looked ridiculously tight on me, but when I was a 22 or 24, or 26 or even a 28 I would never have tried putting a toe in, let alone a let a leg. And then it was just meh. It was annoying to be so close but so far. I could see size 16 looming and some 18's fit but most didn't and that was annoying because I felt like a fake 18- like I couldn't quite claim that mantle legitimately. And then I put on 10 pounds in my belly and now I'm back at a size 20. Which isn't so bad, considering how stessful the job situation was.
But I don't want to be a size 20, or even an 18. I want to be a 12, and then I want to be a 10.
That's 40 or 50 pounds less than where I am now.
Sheesh. That's overwhelming, and yet, I have done it before. But I was much bigger than, so cutting out whole groups of food was effective. Now I don't eat those foods as much. Oh, who am I kidding. I do eat them, just less often and in smaller quantities. But then again I have found that it's much better pyschologically to say I've cut them out, not buy them and then buy them occasionally in small, single portions- like an ice cream cone after a day swimming at the beach, or dessert with freinds. The problem is when they creep in at other times.
I don't know. This post is much more stream of consciousness than I thought it would be and I'm okay with that. I had just hoped for some... clarity. Or inspiration.
Right now I'm anywhere from 264.5-267, averaging 264.5. Before the job stuff happened I was about 253- so a little more than 10 pounds which means I still fit into my old clothes, though they're tight in ways that is upsetting. My bras don't fit right- the cup is too small and the band is biting into my shoulders, causing neck pain and headaches at the end of the day. My pants are tight around the waist which tugs at the crotch creating a snug camel toe. But mostly its my belly that gives me trouble. It's a very soft muffin top and since some of my pants are tight on the waist band, they push my belly up and out, so it looks soft and squishy under my shirts. A lot of the tops that looked smart on me 10 pounds ago are unwearable, because they emphasized my waist line, and now I don't have one.
I have bought a couple of items for this new place- not much because I'm determined not to stay here for long. But I don't believe in punishing myself for what happened. I'm not really motivated enough to get a big hate on going for myself because I gained weight during an incredibly upsetting time, and it seems counter productive anyway- but funny I felt like I had to defend my decision to not punish myself.
In all honesty I'm actually about 261.5 right now. Because I have started running and getting back to the gym. So that seems to be the key for right now- exercise, even more than food, I think. I also notice that when the exercsie is in balance food follows- if only because I am enjoying the movement and want to enhance what I can do with food- not be hampered by it. Running is supposed to give you a huge calorie burn so that's why I am trying it. I know a quick fix isn't a good thing, but I also feel exhuasted by this. I have wanted to be thinner my whole life, well, since about 12. And instead I kept getting bigger and bigger- and thinner got further and further away. And now that I have lost a huge amount of weight I know it's possible, for me, and I don't want to wait anymore. I'm tired of waiting.
That deserves some background info.
Often, in my daydreams and fantasies, especially when I was at my bingeiest and starting counselling, I had this idea of losing weight very slowly and safely over time. I believe it was a four year period, sometimes two. But I always had a horror of the idea of someone who is 300 pounds and loses 100+ pounds in a year or less. It seemed really violent and extreme. (Still does). It seemed like forcibly shedding a self, a life and annihilating it way too quickly. For the body and the mind. I would think about the stretch marks that was likely to cause, and the emotional upheaval and I knew it would be too much. Being 300 + pounds myself and going down has been a head trip, so I can only imagine how going down to 200 would be, almost over night. Or lower. My fear was always that I would become a vaccuous teenager again, obsessed, vain and disloyal. Maybe not in body, but in mind. I worried I would lose interest in Bunny. That I would be frustrated by him, hate him for his lack of confidence- the irony would not be lost on me.
But now I'm not 300 + pounds. And I'm not so sure that quicker isn't better. There's the financial aspect that comes first to mind. When I was losing weight quickly I cycled through a couple of sizes in one summer- much better on the pocket book. But when it slowed up I would hover and linger in one place for months. And I needed a new wardrobe all the time. You think you'd be content with a pair of black pants, a white top and a couple of other shirts. But the same thing happens to you at transition sizes that happens at other times. You buy a top thinking its fab, wear it once and realize it doesn't flatter you at all and convince yourself it's okay to try again for a better replacement. It's an especially addictive game when you're losing weight and always hoping to see progress in the dressing room. Pretty soon you end up with a bulging closet of castaways- more so when you go down yet another size.
Then there's the fulfillment factor. I have been waiting for a long time to lose weight and it takes a lot of mental and physical energy to make it happen. I'm exhuasted with treading slowly, carefully- with treading at all. I started treatment for BED about 10 years ago- I did the work psychologically for a long time. And then two years ago I started doing the physical side and lost weight. But that's a decade of focus and work. It would be nice to just get "there".
I used to be scared of maintance and now I'm not so much. I can see how it's easy to gain 10 pounds without realizing it- you fluctuate a lot over a month and by the time that 6 pounds is permanent you're in the doldrums and his four little freinds creep on easily. Way too easily. But I also know that I maintained the weight loss for about a year and gained 10 pounds only under extreme duress- and only towards the end, when I was completely at my breaking point.
And then there's the fun. Losing all that weight had some pretty cool side effects. I used to worry that weight loss would only bring negative side effects, male attention and sexual temptation or misbehaviour or something. Like I would suddenly become a temptress or something! Or a total slut. And even if you tried to count the co-worker sexual harassment thing (which I don't) you'd have to know it was more based on his attraction/confusion/focus on me as a person- my personality. Not my looks. I don't think how I looked played a role. It was also just proximity in my opinion. But enough of that. I'll save that for another time, when I am ready and don't feel so green about it. Back to the fun. The fun of weight loss wasn't getting checked out (which also caused me anxiety and hasn't happened yet that I'm aware of anyway). The fun of weight loss was about buying clothes- I could shop in Ricki's with gf's and rather than stand around outside the dressing room drooling over clothes I couldn't even get a toe into, I could change alongside them and come out and discuss the merit of this shirt over that and they could do the same for me and I liked that. Another fun thing was re-discovering what my body was capable of. Let's say I haven't worked out in 2 months. Not just haven't worked out consistently, but not worked out at all. In the old days if that were the case I would never decide to join a spin class for an afternoon and figure it would be fine. (Actually, pre-weight loss I wouldn't have considered joining a spin class period). But now, it's no big deal. I know I can do it, I know my body likes cycling and that the class will kick my ass, but in a good way. If someone says, hey, let's walk home after drinks downtown I can feel completely confident that I'll be fine and it doesn't even occur to me to worry/fret, except if my shoes are heels. Which brings me to another fun aspect. I can't do the full on heel, but now I can wear heels and walk in them for the most part. Low heels. Before I couldn't wear heels because my feet were too wide and I couldn't find them in my size and if I did it would be too painful because I didn't have strong leg muscles to compensate for the height and my knees were vulnerable. I still have weak knees and mix heels with flats, but, I have some really nice shoes that draw tons of compliments and that genuinely look good on me that I can walk to work in and even walk to the corner in to grab a quick coffee.
There are other good things. I can trying new things, like this running. I can do yoga. I still can't dance. But, I can go to a night club with gfs and dance for hours and hours and hours and enjoy myself immensely. I can lose myself to the music and yes, I'm usually the biggest person there, but I don't care because I'm dancing and it's fun.
I don't hold back from enjoying myself so much anymore.
What else?
I feel a little more comfortable around men. Not so foreign. Or maybe they feel more comfortable around me? If I did lose a lot of weight and suddenly got my male attention I know for the most part what kind it would be. It wouldn't be "dudes" with cool clothes and hair. It would be intense, nerdy guys who are looking for a wife. The kind of guys who would be drawn to me would be drawn to me for my personality- and my looks would be a conduit to that. I also know that I wouldn't be a beauty. I always secretly hoped that if and when I lost weight I would suddenly look like a model or something, or just be above average in some way. But now I think I would be attractive- genuinely attractive with good features and a quirky elegance- but sometimes, in some lights, my features would be heavy and hard and my skin isn't so great. I think I would have my mothers thighs (big) and my tummy would always be flabby and soft so it's not as if I'd suddenly start sporting skinny jeans and ankle boots and super fitted tops. I guess what I'm saying is that losing weight now that I'm a little closer to average wouldn't be such a shock. My face wouldn't change much and neither would my body, I'd still be a classic hour glass. I'd still look like me. And I'd still be like me. I know that I wouldn't change much perosnality wise. I might get a little more confident, a little more daring- but those would be good changes. Other than that I don't see much being different. And I'm okay with that.
So basically, I guess what I'm saying, public declaring, is that I am ready to lose 50 more pounds. I am giving myself permission to go there.
Will I be the girl who lost 100+ pounds, will I change from the outside and finally be able to wear clothes from any store I step into? Or will I linger and hover here- a new place to be sure, acceptably fat, but not quite where I want to be.
Where do I want to be. I used to think being a size 18 would be just right. And then this year I reached that (though I'm no longer able to claim that since the career crisis of Spring) and while I was there it was heady at first, I could almost fit into clothes at the gap, I could get my legs in the pants and they looked ridiculously tight on me, but when I was a 22 or 24, or 26 or even a 28 I would never have tried putting a toe in, let alone a let a leg. And then it was just meh. It was annoying to be so close but so far. I could see size 16 looming and some 18's fit but most didn't and that was annoying because I felt like a fake 18- like I couldn't quite claim that mantle legitimately. And then I put on 10 pounds in my belly and now I'm back at a size 20. Which isn't so bad, considering how stessful the job situation was.
But I don't want to be a size 20, or even an 18. I want to be a 12, and then I want to be a 10.
That's 40 or 50 pounds less than where I am now.
Sheesh. That's overwhelming, and yet, I have done it before. But I was much bigger than, so cutting out whole groups of food was effective. Now I don't eat those foods as much. Oh, who am I kidding. I do eat them, just less often and in smaller quantities. But then again I have found that it's much better pyschologically to say I've cut them out, not buy them and then buy them occasionally in small, single portions- like an ice cream cone after a day swimming at the beach, or dessert with freinds. The problem is when they creep in at other times.
I don't know. This post is much more stream of consciousness than I thought it would be and I'm okay with that. I had just hoped for some... clarity. Or inspiration.
Right now I'm anywhere from 264.5-267, averaging 264.5. Before the job stuff happened I was about 253- so a little more than 10 pounds which means I still fit into my old clothes, though they're tight in ways that is upsetting. My bras don't fit right- the cup is too small and the band is biting into my shoulders, causing neck pain and headaches at the end of the day. My pants are tight around the waist which tugs at the crotch creating a snug camel toe. But mostly its my belly that gives me trouble. It's a very soft muffin top and since some of my pants are tight on the waist band, they push my belly up and out, so it looks soft and squishy under my shirts. A lot of the tops that looked smart on me 10 pounds ago are unwearable, because they emphasized my waist line, and now I don't have one.
I have bought a couple of items for this new place- not much because I'm determined not to stay here for long. But I don't believe in punishing myself for what happened. I'm not really motivated enough to get a big hate on going for myself because I gained weight during an incredibly upsetting time, and it seems counter productive anyway- but funny I felt like I had to defend my decision to not punish myself.
In all honesty I'm actually about 261.5 right now. Because I have started running and getting back to the gym. So that seems to be the key for right now- exercise, even more than food, I think. I also notice that when the exercsie is in balance food follows- if only because I am enjoying the movement and want to enhance what I can do with food- not be hampered by it. Running is supposed to give you a huge calorie burn so that's why I am trying it. I know a quick fix isn't a good thing, but I also feel exhuasted by this. I have wanted to be thinner my whole life, well, since about 12. And instead I kept getting bigger and bigger- and thinner got further and further away. And now that I have lost a huge amount of weight I know it's possible, for me, and I don't want to wait anymore. I'm tired of waiting.
That deserves some background info.
Often, in my daydreams and fantasies, especially when I was at my bingeiest and starting counselling, I had this idea of losing weight very slowly and safely over time. I believe it was a four year period, sometimes two. But I always had a horror of the idea of someone who is 300 pounds and loses 100+ pounds in a year or less. It seemed really violent and extreme. (Still does). It seemed like forcibly shedding a self, a life and annihilating it way too quickly. For the body and the mind. I would think about the stretch marks that was likely to cause, and the emotional upheaval and I knew it would be too much. Being 300 + pounds myself and going down has been a head trip, so I can only imagine how going down to 200 would be, almost over night. Or lower. My fear was always that I would become a vaccuous teenager again, obsessed, vain and disloyal. Maybe not in body, but in mind. I worried I would lose interest in Bunny. That I would be frustrated by him, hate him for his lack of confidence- the irony would not be lost on me.
But now I'm not 300 + pounds. And I'm not so sure that quicker isn't better. There's the financial aspect that comes first to mind. When I was losing weight quickly I cycled through a couple of sizes in one summer- much better on the pocket book. But when it slowed up I would hover and linger in one place for months. And I needed a new wardrobe all the time. You think you'd be content with a pair of black pants, a white top and a couple of other shirts. But the same thing happens to you at transition sizes that happens at other times. You buy a top thinking its fab, wear it once and realize it doesn't flatter you at all and convince yourself it's okay to try again for a better replacement. It's an especially addictive game when you're losing weight and always hoping to see progress in the dressing room. Pretty soon you end up with a bulging closet of castaways- more so when you go down yet another size.
Then there's the fulfillment factor. I have been waiting for a long time to lose weight and it takes a lot of mental and physical energy to make it happen. I'm exhuasted with treading slowly, carefully- with treading at all. I started treatment for BED about 10 years ago- I did the work psychologically for a long time. And then two years ago I started doing the physical side and lost weight. But that's a decade of focus and work. It would be nice to just get "there".
I used to be scared of maintance and now I'm not so much. I can see how it's easy to gain 10 pounds without realizing it- you fluctuate a lot over a month and by the time that 6 pounds is permanent you're in the doldrums and his four little freinds creep on easily. Way too easily. But I also know that I maintained the weight loss for about a year and gained 10 pounds only under extreme duress- and only towards the end, when I was completely at my breaking point.
And then there's the fun. Losing all that weight had some pretty cool side effects. I used to worry that weight loss would only bring negative side effects, male attention and sexual temptation or misbehaviour or something. Like I would suddenly become a temptress or something! Or a total slut. And even if you tried to count the co-worker sexual harassment thing (which I don't) you'd have to know it was more based on his attraction/confusion/focus on me as a person- my personality. Not my looks. I don't think how I looked played a role. It was also just proximity in my opinion. But enough of that. I'll save that for another time, when I am ready and don't feel so green about it. Back to the fun. The fun of weight loss wasn't getting checked out (which also caused me anxiety and hasn't happened yet that I'm aware of anyway). The fun of weight loss was about buying clothes- I could shop in Ricki's with gf's and rather than stand around outside the dressing room drooling over clothes I couldn't even get a toe into, I could change alongside them and come out and discuss the merit of this shirt over that and they could do the same for me and I liked that. Another fun thing was re-discovering what my body was capable of. Let's say I haven't worked out in 2 months. Not just haven't worked out consistently, but not worked out at all. In the old days if that were the case I would never decide to join a spin class for an afternoon and figure it would be fine. (Actually, pre-weight loss I wouldn't have considered joining a spin class period). But now, it's no big deal. I know I can do it, I know my body likes cycling and that the class will kick my ass, but in a good way. If someone says, hey, let's walk home after drinks downtown I can feel completely confident that I'll be fine and it doesn't even occur to me to worry/fret, except if my shoes are heels. Which brings me to another fun aspect. I can't do the full on heel, but now I can wear heels and walk in them for the most part. Low heels. Before I couldn't wear heels because my feet were too wide and I couldn't find them in my size and if I did it would be too painful because I didn't have strong leg muscles to compensate for the height and my knees were vulnerable. I still have weak knees and mix heels with flats, but, I have some really nice shoes that draw tons of compliments and that genuinely look good on me that I can walk to work in and even walk to the corner in to grab a quick coffee.
There are other good things. I can trying new things, like this running. I can do yoga. I still can't dance. But, I can go to a night club with gfs and dance for hours and hours and hours and enjoy myself immensely. I can lose myself to the music and yes, I'm usually the biggest person there, but I don't care because I'm dancing and it's fun.
I don't hold back from enjoying myself so much anymore.
What else?
I feel a little more comfortable around men. Not so foreign. Or maybe they feel more comfortable around me? If I did lose a lot of weight and suddenly got my male attention I know for the most part what kind it would be. It wouldn't be "dudes" with cool clothes and hair. It would be intense, nerdy guys who are looking for a wife. The kind of guys who would be drawn to me would be drawn to me for my personality- and my looks would be a conduit to that. I also know that I wouldn't be a beauty. I always secretly hoped that if and when I lost weight I would suddenly look like a model or something, or just be above average in some way. But now I think I would be attractive- genuinely attractive with good features and a quirky elegance- but sometimes, in some lights, my features would be heavy and hard and my skin isn't so great. I think I would have my mothers thighs (big) and my tummy would always be flabby and soft so it's not as if I'd suddenly start sporting skinny jeans and ankle boots and super fitted tops. I guess what I'm saying is that losing weight now that I'm a little closer to average wouldn't be such a shock. My face wouldn't change much and neither would my body, I'd still be a classic hour glass. I'd still look like me. And I'd still be like me. I know that I wouldn't change much perosnality wise. I might get a little more confident, a little more daring- but those would be good changes. Other than that I don't see much being different. And I'm okay with that.
So basically, I guess what I'm saying, public declaring, is that I am ready to lose 50 more pounds. I am giving myself permission to go there.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Since I last sat down to gather my thoughts things have changed a lot. I left my job. Visited home. Got a new job. And right now I’m in transition- haven’t started the new job yet and am trying to enjoy a well earned break and make sense of the situation I left so that I can begin to heal and get some of my confidence back.
The biggest question that keeps floating in my mind is how much of what happened is me? As in, did I create a lot of the stuff in my head and make it worse, or was it as external as I supposed.
I play devils advocate a lot. When things I usually spend a lot of time afterwards looking at my own behavior, questioning my own motives and feeling guilty for my role in things. I usually end up crediting the other party way more then I do myself. I shoulder most of the blame and take on a lot of the negative “baggage” and assume my motivations/behavior was more petty and self-centred than the other persons.
But not this time.
This time, looking back I can see I wasn’t perfect by any means. I used gossip via e-mail to a trusted friend to relieve some of my tension- and also unleashed my poison tongue with some like minded gossips in person. Being on the receiving end of gossip stings, I know, I’ve been there. And that’s why my gossping is the only thing I feel guilty about. And I fully intend to think about that- though there’s a caveat, as bad as gossiping is, and as much as I would prefer not to engage in it, I know that in the big picture it’s not the worst thing in the world and my gossiping only reached hurtful proportions when I was at my most stressed and most overwhelmed emotionally. I know that I gossiped to deal with the situation. It was a coping mechanism. I couldn’t affect change in a straightforward manner with my manager so I dissed him behind his back and made snide little comments to people whom I knew would be receptive. So really what I would like to do is cut down on the idle, gossiping about harmless people that just rolls off my tongue in a moment of weakness/bitchiness/passing frustration and get away from people who make me so frustrated and who block me into corners so that my only defense is to strike back by talking trash about them. So that’s what I learned and it’s something I have wanted to do for a long time but everyone does a little gossiping and when you’re with friends it feels so good to finally say all those things that have been building up inside for so long and laugh about it over coffee. So honestly I don’t know how realistic that “lesson” really is; which brings me to my point: I wasn’t perfect, but I can forgive myself this time for any behavior I exhibited because overall I was coming from a place of trying to enjoy life, grow professionally and fix what needed fixing at work. Which is why this time, not last time, but this time, I am placing the blame externally. Because for all my imperfections and less than stellar behaviour at least I didn’t behave in a way that made me ashamed or seemed “wrong”. They did, however.
That job started off very well. But I knew right away L was going to be a problem. She’s bitchy and catty and smart and talented. She remarks about everyone and provides a strong social code of behaviour with punishments doled out very quickly, and yet the rules don’t apply to her. She’s a middle-aged Queen Bee with a hive swirling around her and I knew right away that in order to get along there I would have to befriend her and put her onto a pedestal. Which I did.
I promptly began to kiss her butt, as she was my supervisor and I relied on her good graces to keep me protected from other divisions/depts. stealing my time with make-work projects, and most of all my manager stealing my time. I knew right away she was the de facto manager and I’d be wise to show my deference and loyalty more visibly to her than to him.
Things went swimmingly and if I had any qualms about having to kiss her ass I quickly squelched them because I was happy to be included in a group and to have peace at work.
But once X came on and L started to see a new group forming within the group she turned on everyone- it was also at that time that she started to date a super senior manager who has a reputation with the ladies and she went through a lot of angst about whether or not to date him for her own personal reasons. She’s also highly sensitive about aging. So all of that combined into a perfect storm and she blamed all of her emotional stuff on the people around her. As I later found out she did something similar during her divorce.
So there was the episode with L. Which, to his credit, my manager stepped in for and stood up for us.
I survived that very well in tact because I had friends who kept me sane and balanced. I even lost a lot of weight that summer.
Then C left. Then X left. And then L left. And then things took a turn for the worse in terms of workload. I got dumped with more and more projects because I had the longest corporate history and well, because I was the only person there. A very talented person who I respected greatly and I competed for the same job. Both of us were equally qualified. Neither got it. Instead it went to a smarmy, sexist pig.
And then things went from bad to worse because my highly qualified and wonderful friend was laid off and my work load got bigger. The new person was lazy and lacked iniative. So my workload got bigger. Plus, by this time I was serving two masters. I did 2 jobs worth of work and I had two managers to answer to, neither of which was willing to give me up and each of whom fought over my time. Only one of whom was my actual manager. The problem for me was, I found the work with my non-manager supervisor to be more interesting, rewarding and more important for the overall wellbeing of the company than the make-work I had to do for my actual manager. Plus, I was working at a much higher level. So I felt like I was being dragged down by routine, mindless tasks, stupid window dressing projects that lowered our credibility, and had to carve out time for real communications work that would benefit the company in the long and short term, while being paid less than my lazy colleague and doing the amount of work of two, and oftentimes 3 jobs. With no appreciation and no foreseeable way to get out. And when I tried to deal with it with my manager on many occasions he became extremely defensive and rude and mean, questioning my dedication and my professionalism on small mistakes that I made (I lost a flower arrangement at an event- but in context to the service and product I provided on a daily basis I hardly think losing a fucking flower arrangement is worth questioning my work ethic over.) Then came the sexual harassment and then came the betrayal of the company. After all of that I can truly say that while I may regret gossiping as a coping mechanism I forgive myself that error in judgment and can only feel compassion for myself.
Of course I was saying snotty things by e-mail! I had to find some way to make it in every morning, to make it through the days when a dumb decision landed on my desk and I had to fix another mess and be treated like shit on top of that. And you know what? I am fucking ambitious and I did want my co-worker’s job. I should have had his job and yes it did cause bad feelings. Not initially. No, at the time it really didn’t bother me at all except on my other co-workers’ behalf who I felt deserved a promotion of some kind. But I figured the new person would be a real dynamo and would pull their weight and produce good work and I would learn from them- after all I reasoned- there had to be a good reason why they were hired over me or the other person. But alas not. And not only that he was a prick. A creep. So I began to feel even more bitter and resentful. And when I tried to talk my manager about my workload and he freaked out my feelings were hurt and I put my head down and tried to make the best of it. But really I gave up. And the truth about me is; I’m not really able to give up. I care too much. So I just got bitter.
Now, I wonder, what did I learn? What valuable lesson can I take away with me from all this? The first thing that springs to mind is to move on sooner. I started feeling that way in October but I stayed because I thought they needed me for SABA and well, because I like SABA. I couldn’t have known that decision would blow up in my face, but I could have checked my ego a bit. They need me? No, they don’t. Nothing I built there will be remembered fondly or honoured. And why should it. That place didn’t need me- because I’m replacable. Which isn’t to say I didn’t do good work, I did, but that there is nothing special about me and I shouldn’t have worried about them- it’s not my problem. (But saying I should have moved on sooner kind of denies reality in that I tried a few times but didn’t get any bites and was so exhausted after 5 days of that craziness I had no energy on weekends).
Lesson number two- when you stop taking care of yourself for a job it’s no longer a healthy environment. For me, the level of my happiness is best expressed through my level of self-care. Self-care for me consists of a balanced diet, working out a couple times per week and the ability to have fun in my body- that can be a long bike ride, a hike, going out to eat without guilt, or pilates. When I start to distance myself from my body and its wisdom it means I am distancing myself from the message its trying to tell me. My body doesn’t whisper, it roars. And when I ignore it takes a lot of work, a lot of active deception and sabotage on my part, but I’m also very good at ignoring it, I’ve done it for many more years than I’ve had the pleasure of working with it. And that’s exactly what happened this time- I didn’t want to listen to the message it was sending about stress at work, about feeling bitter and looked over- about feeling trapped in a job that was going nowhere and for whom I felt it necessary to sacrifice my health. I stopped working out because I was so busy and something had to give and I had to make more time for myself to decompress and sleep to recover, and so I took more time/mental energy from my already strapped self- rather than from my work. I hate to sound like K but she was right. Your body is a well. You have to re-fill it all the time. And you have to be more vigilant when you’re taking a lot from it. But I got so busy emptying the well, drawing on my reserves to the last drop that I had no time, no energy or interest in re-filling it. I couldn’t. And my body knew, it saw it happening and I knew it wasn’t healthy or right. And I ignored all the subtle hints, all the messages it sent. I lost so much. Physical strength, emotional well being, that sense of accomplishment, energy, zest, hope, flexibility, a flatter stomach. And I gained 10 pounds of flab in exchange.
Lesson Number three: The hardest of all. The one I will have to think about, long and hard. The realization that maybe I’m not cut out for a stressful job. Maybe I don’t handle even mild stress very well. Other people have done that job (though its changed quite a bit since C left- but then it had it’s own stresses then, too) and didn’t feel as depressed and shit on as I did. Maybe if some of my blame lay anywhere it’s in the fact that I denied to myself how little stress I can actually handle. Maybe I am more fragile than I ever thought? But when I think those thoughts, when I allow myself to go there a voice, my drill sergeant, shouts: NO! It sounds weak and pathetic and I don’t want to be those things. My brain says only tiny little weak women with itty bitty bodies get to claim their “fragile” and can’t handle stress. Not big fat oxen like me. Not work horses, not me, a lumbering mule with a thousand lb weight on my back. I have to be strong, stronger than most, with hidden wells, reserves of strength- why? Because I always have, because I’ve always pulled through (at great cost to my body) and so I expect myself to tough it out, take the harder road and persevere. The idea of admitting I need a gentler environment, a softer existence, special accommodation because I can’t cut it seems like admitting I’m a failure and weird and weak, and I don’t want to be any of those things. I feel like I already make excuses for myself internally, I don’t want people to see my weaknesses externally, too. And I don’t want to miss out on opportunities, on fun because I took the easy road and opted out of competing.
And I guess that’s all for now.
The biggest question that keeps floating in my mind is how much of what happened is me? As in, did I create a lot of the stuff in my head and make it worse, or was it as external as I supposed.
I play devils advocate a lot. When things I usually spend a lot of time afterwards looking at my own behavior, questioning my own motives and feeling guilty for my role in things. I usually end up crediting the other party way more then I do myself. I shoulder most of the blame and take on a lot of the negative “baggage” and assume my motivations/behavior was more petty and self-centred than the other persons.
But not this time.
This time, looking back I can see I wasn’t perfect by any means. I used gossip via e-mail to a trusted friend to relieve some of my tension- and also unleashed my poison tongue with some like minded gossips in person. Being on the receiving end of gossip stings, I know, I’ve been there. And that’s why my gossping is the only thing I feel guilty about. And I fully intend to think about that- though there’s a caveat, as bad as gossiping is, and as much as I would prefer not to engage in it, I know that in the big picture it’s not the worst thing in the world and my gossiping only reached hurtful proportions when I was at my most stressed and most overwhelmed emotionally. I know that I gossiped to deal with the situation. It was a coping mechanism. I couldn’t affect change in a straightforward manner with my manager so I dissed him behind his back and made snide little comments to people whom I knew would be receptive. So really what I would like to do is cut down on the idle, gossiping about harmless people that just rolls off my tongue in a moment of weakness/bitchiness/passing frustration and get away from people who make me so frustrated and who block me into corners so that my only defense is to strike back by talking trash about them. So that’s what I learned and it’s something I have wanted to do for a long time but everyone does a little gossiping and when you’re with friends it feels so good to finally say all those things that have been building up inside for so long and laugh about it over coffee. So honestly I don’t know how realistic that “lesson” really is; which brings me to my point: I wasn’t perfect, but I can forgive myself this time for any behavior I exhibited because overall I was coming from a place of trying to enjoy life, grow professionally and fix what needed fixing at work. Which is why this time, not last time, but this time, I am placing the blame externally. Because for all my imperfections and less than stellar behaviour at least I didn’t behave in a way that made me ashamed or seemed “wrong”. They did, however.
That job started off very well. But I knew right away L was going to be a problem. She’s bitchy and catty and smart and talented. She remarks about everyone and provides a strong social code of behaviour with punishments doled out very quickly, and yet the rules don’t apply to her. She’s a middle-aged Queen Bee with a hive swirling around her and I knew right away that in order to get along there I would have to befriend her and put her onto a pedestal. Which I did.
I promptly began to kiss her butt, as she was my supervisor and I relied on her good graces to keep me protected from other divisions/depts. stealing my time with make-work projects, and most of all my manager stealing my time. I knew right away she was the de facto manager and I’d be wise to show my deference and loyalty more visibly to her than to him.
Things went swimmingly and if I had any qualms about having to kiss her ass I quickly squelched them because I was happy to be included in a group and to have peace at work.
But once X came on and L started to see a new group forming within the group she turned on everyone- it was also at that time that she started to date a super senior manager who has a reputation with the ladies and she went through a lot of angst about whether or not to date him for her own personal reasons. She’s also highly sensitive about aging. So all of that combined into a perfect storm and she blamed all of her emotional stuff on the people around her. As I later found out she did something similar during her divorce.
So there was the episode with L. Which, to his credit, my manager stepped in for and stood up for us.
I survived that very well in tact because I had friends who kept me sane and balanced. I even lost a lot of weight that summer.
Then C left. Then X left. And then L left. And then things took a turn for the worse in terms of workload. I got dumped with more and more projects because I had the longest corporate history and well, because I was the only person there. A very talented person who I respected greatly and I competed for the same job. Both of us were equally qualified. Neither got it. Instead it went to a smarmy, sexist pig.
And then things went from bad to worse because my highly qualified and wonderful friend was laid off and my work load got bigger. The new person was lazy and lacked iniative. So my workload got bigger. Plus, by this time I was serving two masters. I did 2 jobs worth of work and I had two managers to answer to, neither of which was willing to give me up and each of whom fought over my time. Only one of whom was my actual manager. The problem for me was, I found the work with my non-manager supervisor to be more interesting, rewarding and more important for the overall wellbeing of the company than the make-work I had to do for my actual manager. Plus, I was working at a much higher level. So I felt like I was being dragged down by routine, mindless tasks, stupid window dressing projects that lowered our credibility, and had to carve out time for real communications work that would benefit the company in the long and short term, while being paid less than my lazy colleague and doing the amount of work of two, and oftentimes 3 jobs. With no appreciation and no foreseeable way to get out. And when I tried to deal with it with my manager on many occasions he became extremely defensive and rude and mean, questioning my dedication and my professionalism on small mistakes that I made (I lost a flower arrangement at an event- but in context to the service and product I provided on a daily basis I hardly think losing a fucking flower arrangement is worth questioning my work ethic over.) Then came the sexual harassment and then came the betrayal of the company. After all of that I can truly say that while I may regret gossiping as a coping mechanism I forgive myself that error in judgment and can only feel compassion for myself.
Of course I was saying snotty things by e-mail! I had to find some way to make it in every morning, to make it through the days when a dumb decision landed on my desk and I had to fix another mess and be treated like shit on top of that. And you know what? I am fucking ambitious and I did want my co-worker’s job. I should have had his job and yes it did cause bad feelings. Not initially. No, at the time it really didn’t bother me at all except on my other co-workers’ behalf who I felt deserved a promotion of some kind. But I figured the new person would be a real dynamo and would pull their weight and produce good work and I would learn from them- after all I reasoned- there had to be a good reason why they were hired over me or the other person. But alas not. And not only that he was a prick. A creep. So I began to feel even more bitter and resentful. And when I tried to talk my manager about my workload and he freaked out my feelings were hurt and I put my head down and tried to make the best of it. But really I gave up. And the truth about me is; I’m not really able to give up. I care too much. So I just got bitter.
Now, I wonder, what did I learn? What valuable lesson can I take away with me from all this? The first thing that springs to mind is to move on sooner. I started feeling that way in October but I stayed because I thought they needed me for SABA and well, because I like SABA. I couldn’t have known that decision would blow up in my face, but I could have checked my ego a bit. They need me? No, they don’t. Nothing I built there will be remembered fondly or honoured. And why should it. That place didn’t need me- because I’m replacable. Which isn’t to say I didn’t do good work, I did, but that there is nothing special about me and I shouldn’t have worried about them- it’s not my problem. (But saying I should have moved on sooner kind of denies reality in that I tried a few times but didn’t get any bites and was so exhausted after 5 days of that craziness I had no energy on weekends).
Lesson number two- when you stop taking care of yourself for a job it’s no longer a healthy environment. For me, the level of my happiness is best expressed through my level of self-care. Self-care for me consists of a balanced diet, working out a couple times per week and the ability to have fun in my body- that can be a long bike ride, a hike, going out to eat without guilt, or pilates. When I start to distance myself from my body and its wisdom it means I am distancing myself from the message its trying to tell me. My body doesn’t whisper, it roars. And when I ignore it takes a lot of work, a lot of active deception and sabotage on my part, but I’m also very good at ignoring it, I’ve done it for many more years than I’ve had the pleasure of working with it. And that’s exactly what happened this time- I didn’t want to listen to the message it was sending about stress at work, about feeling bitter and looked over- about feeling trapped in a job that was going nowhere and for whom I felt it necessary to sacrifice my health. I stopped working out because I was so busy and something had to give and I had to make more time for myself to decompress and sleep to recover, and so I took more time/mental energy from my already strapped self- rather than from my work. I hate to sound like K but she was right. Your body is a well. You have to re-fill it all the time. And you have to be more vigilant when you’re taking a lot from it. But I got so busy emptying the well, drawing on my reserves to the last drop that I had no time, no energy or interest in re-filling it. I couldn’t. And my body knew, it saw it happening and I knew it wasn’t healthy or right. And I ignored all the subtle hints, all the messages it sent. I lost so much. Physical strength, emotional well being, that sense of accomplishment, energy, zest, hope, flexibility, a flatter stomach. And I gained 10 pounds of flab in exchange.
Lesson Number three: The hardest of all. The one I will have to think about, long and hard. The realization that maybe I’m not cut out for a stressful job. Maybe I don’t handle even mild stress very well. Other people have done that job (though its changed quite a bit since C left- but then it had it’s own stresses then, too) and didn’t feel as depressed and shit on as I did. Maybe if some of my blame lay anywhere it’s in the fact that I denied to myself how little stress I can actually handle. Maybe I am more fragile than I ever thought? But when I think those thoughts, when I allow myself to go there a voice, my drill sergeant, shouts: NO! It sounds weak and pathetic and I don’t want to be those things. My brain says only tiny little weak women with itty bitty bodies get to claim their “fragile” and can’t handle stress. Not big fat oxen like me. Not work horses, not me, a lumbering mule with a thousand lb weight on my back. I have to be strong, stronger than most, with hidden wells, reserves of strength- why? Because I always have, because I’ve always pulled through (at great cost to my body) and so I expect myself to tough it out, take the harder road and persevere. The idea of admitting I need a gentler environment, a softer existence, special accommodation because I can’t cut it seems like admitting I’m a failure and weird and weak, and I don’t want to be any of those things. I feel like I already make excuses for myself internally, I don’t want people to see my weaknesses externally, too. And I don’t want to miss out on opportunities, on fun because I took the easy road and opted out of competing.
And I guess that’s all for now.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Emoting
I won’t bother to go into all of the details, suffice to say there are a lot. Instead I will bullet point the last month of my life and attempt to capture the gist of why I am now going into work and coping by disassociating and then binging uncontrollably at home.
- Co-worker verbally attacks another co-worker in my presence
- Same co-worker makes a very inappropriate, creepy remark to me on Valentine’s Day (day after verbal attack).
- I stew for a couple of days, what to do, what to do….
- I decide to document the event with HR- I explicitly say I do not want this to turn into WWIII, I just want it on record in case he does it again or does it to someone else.
HR immediately launches into action, disregarding my request completely. - I document, I tell the story, once, twice, fifty times.
- People are called into meetings.
- Tension abounds.
- I call in sick, but I’m not physically sick, I’m emotionally sick, anxious with the entire goings on.
i. I call HR and tell them this is all impacting me negatively. - Co-worker is fired.
- Friend quits job after 2 hour interrogation. They have read all of her e-mails and pegged her as workplace poison.
- I am next.
- Two days later I am called into HR. My e-mails are brought before me. They have been investigating me. I still don’t know why or how that came about, but I suppose turn about is fair play? Anyway, they zeroed in on snotty e-mails between me and friend wherein we joke at the expense of others.
- Please note: these snotty e-mails were not exactly cutting a wide swath through the company. Five people were targeted with our “workplace poison” including the sexual harasser (only after he sexually harassed me, mind you). The other four breakdown as follows: my manger, a useless pantsload. And two co-workers of my friend that are notoriously irritating and condescending. The final snotty e-mail was a one off, wherein I called a fucking idiot a fucking idiot.
i. Oh, and the e-mail I sent to my friend explaining that I wasn’t really sick on the day I called in, but feeling like shit with everything and using the day to gather up my emotional strength to make it through the rest of the week in the middle of a sexual harassment investigation, wherein someone else’s job was at stake. - I was given a letter of reprimand for my crimes, a letter which will stay on my employment record for two years.
Note to self: Don’t trust anyone.
I have been through the wringer and I know where I went wrong (though shall not diss thy co-workers, especially not on company e-mail). But other than doing something 90% of people do I don’t really have much to be sorry about around my own behaviour. I took responsibility for it, I’ll never do it again and I’m genuinely sorry for using the company e-mail inappropriately. But I feel betrayed. Let’s just put it out there. I came to them and asked them to document a situation which I felt I could work with (as long as I knew I had a documented safety net behind me) and instead of listening to me and respecting my wishes they turned a tense situation into a scorched earth situation. (Tally: 1 person fired because of this, 1 person quit and the person who made the sexual harassment allegation {me} reprimanded for inappropriate e-mail use. Nice).
But this isn’t about who did what. This is about how I feel. How I’m coping. Or not coping. Or coping in a way that’s destructive.
To get myself into work and to accomplish anything I have numb myself, so that by the time I get to those elevators all trace of the person I really am, how wronged I feel and how angry I am, are gone. In order to do that I have to sublimate every natural impulse I have, which is to stay home, to yell at them, to send a snotty e-mail to a friend pointing out all their failings as human beings, to say something snide to a friend about how fucked up the place is, but most of all, to leave. All of these impulses, which are essentially healthy, given the situation, have to be shut down. All day long. For eight hours I have to make my face a blank mask that doesn’t betray my despair, my seething rage or my hurt. For eight hours I have to pretend I’m not counting the seconds until I get another call about another job or arrange another interview/writing test. For eight hours I have to pretend I’m happy to be there, that I’m okay with being there and that I accept that they have a right to read e-mails, written during a period of duress, accept the conclusions they have drawn about me and the situation, and meekly accept my punishment. Eight hours of eating shit.
I don’t do well with that, especially since I feel as if I’ve been eating shit for a while now.
But again, this isn’t about them. It’s about me. I have to keep reminding myself of that, I have to stop myself from telling the story. The story isn’t really that important, the Meta story is. The Meta story is the key here. The Meta story is this: I’m in a shitty situation. One in which most people would chew their own toes off to get out of as soon as possible and I am still there, biding my time, playing nice, secretly seething. I don’t actually know if I have any right to feel as wronged as I do, but I feel it and since I feel it shouldn’t I quit, shouldn’t I completely pull up stakes and say fuck you I’m outta here? Is it smart, strategic, to stay until I have another job? And more central even than that is this: why is it that when I am in an untenable situation I not only stay and try to make it work, but I punish myself.
It’s the self-punishment aspect of all of this that scares me. I am doing a lot of this to myself. I have been unhappy there for a while and trying to get out since Octoberish. (hence my snotty e-mails beginning in October according to HR, at least they got the timing right, though the lions share of the reprimand-able e-mails came during the month long investigation period, funny, wouldn’t that be when I was most upset and most needing to vent?). Why did I stay as long as I did and is there a part of me that knew it would have to come to a head like this in order for me to leave?
I’ve never actually cleanly left a job. I’ve never actually left a person or a situation without it being a big thing. (Well, Emma Shram I left without much ado but somehow that doesn’t feel like a sufficient example). I have always held on to things long past their expiry date and stayed and stayed out of a sense of obligation, while also knowing that my seething hatred was crushing me and the other person at the same time. So I bring about these situations where I get to leave with a sense of righteous hatred or I slink away, slapped for my misconduct (coping mechanisms while in a shitty situation). But I never just make a clean break. Let’s look at all my dirty breaks:
- My mother- too much history to sum up in on sentence. Let’s just say it was the mother of nasty break-ups.
- Jen K- never told her straight up that I’d moved on so I avoided her instead.
- Dawn G- never told her how upsetting/hurtful her behaviour was.
- Michelle M- Fired me and broke up on bad terms, similar to this work situation, there were misdeeds all around, all of which could have been avoided if I’d just left sooner.
- V-Day ladies- I would scale a wall with my teeth to avoid running into one of these women. They disrespected me and used me and I hate them for thinking badly of me.
- A K- similar, but not, strange time for me, tainted by M. But I was in the middle of wanting to escape CC and it was a very triggering event for me.
- Tommy’s taxi- lied about starting school to quit there.
- Alan- should have just told him he was a racist pig in the first place and moved on.
I don’t want to get into blame the victim thing here, but how much of this would have been prevented if I’d just left? But then common sense cuts in. How exactly could I leave if I didn’t have another job? I mean, that’s stupid. So how can I blame myself for staying? But then again, I could have tried harder to get out as soon as I realized it was getting to that point where I feel taken advantage of and bitter.
(Note to self: When you start to feel taken advantage of and bitter, take drastic measures to get the fuck out of that situation. More on that later.
Alright. I’m trying to get away from the self-destructiveness thing and am going to the gym for a bit. I’ll write more later.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Back to basics
I certainly took a long break from blogging. Interestingly, it’s directly attributable to the summer weight loss synchronicity cycle kicking in again. In late July everything started clicking together again, just like last year. I was going to the gym every morning, I was going to Pilates and I was feeling very strong and capable and relaxed. At night I would sit on my balcony in my new chaise lounge and read- despite my discomfort with having neighbors stare at me. And I started to lose weight again. Not as much weight as the year before, but enough so that I was able to make my dearest wish come true- to add one more, crucial clothing store to my bland shopping repertoire. Rickis. I first went in trepiditiously in September and tried on a sweater vest. At the time it was still a little too tight so I returned it. But a few weeks later I went back and I tried on a pair of black pants and they fit! That change launched me into another world in many respects- I finally felt like I was able to indulge my fashion sense in a way I’d never been able to before. September marched on and I began to worry about what would happen when the days got shorter and the cravings kicked in. So I got myself some anti-depressants. By the time October came I was a size 18 and toned and firm. I bought new bras and felt like a lady. I bought new shoes with heels that went with my new clothes. And then October was over and November was long and cold and dark. And then everything started to unravel. The depression wasn’t as bad this year, thanks to the Citalopram, but the exercise dwindled. I could barely wake up in the mornings and in the afternoons I was so drained from work I just wanted to lay on the couch. Mondo got sick and was dying and that broke my heart, another friend left work and I injured myself when I tried to kick my exercise routine up a notch- ironically, in an attempt to stave off depression and routine.
Other things happened, too of course. Work ramped up from busy and unsatisfying to crazy busy and unbearable. We went on a family vacation. Mondo got sicker. Coming home to see him so weak and disoriented was hard for me. I could not watch him suffer for much longer. It was too hard for me to see him like that. And I knew that my decision would ultimately be as much about putting us at ease as it was about putting him to rest. We were there with him as he passed away and it felt surreal to watch my little grumpy buddy slip away from us after the injection. When the vet left, we held him and buried our faces in his fur, touching his belly and stroking him in intimate ways he never let us do when he was alive because he was so “boundaried.” And I felt so guilty for being so curious to finally touch him unimpeded by his usually violent response to any unsolicited and often, solicited, attempts at touch. I wasn’t sure if it was disrespectful to bury my face against his body and breathe him in, but I needed to feel him and experience him; to know him one last time. I think he would have understood the impulse to touch him, finally, at last.
And then December rolled around and work got even worse. I was working late and working through lunch and when I got home I was too tired to do anything and I wasn’t eating right during the day so by the time I got home I was voracious and felt completely justified saying, “I deserve take out and I’ll get my shit together tomorrow.” But I never did.
And then January, work finally went back to just being busy towards the middle of the month and we got a new puppy to help fill the hole left by Mondo and for that first week I was so content and so happy about having a new being to love and know, I didn’t feel out of control around food at all. But that kind of contentment doesn’t last long, and so I was quickly back to feeling like I had before: not quite depressed, but not quite enjoying my existence either. Not able to exercise, not able to take care of myself for anything more than brief bursts (usually brought on by scale-scares).
Now February is almost over and I’ve been yo-yoing between 253 and 257. Sometimes I get as low as 251 and then I blow it. And my stomach is huge. Somehow I manage to fit into lots of 1x’s (18/20) but my waist is 41 inches, technically a size 22. I feel like a freak. I don’t know why my abdomen is sticking out so much in proportion with the rest of me. Fiona went to England in early September so I haven’t been to a Pilates class since then, hence my enormous stomach I guess. And since I haven’t been exercising much at all, including doing core work, all my weight seems to be going to my stomach. I don’t want to be bitchy here, but I am meant to be hourglass shaped, not apple. At least apple shapes usually have the benefit of shapely legs. But I have big, gi-normous breasts, an abdomen that threatens to exceed the breadth of my bosom, and big legs, featuring the ever attractive “cankle”. I don’t need this shit and wearing stupid spanx is a recipe for a yeast infection, but I have to tame this tummy somehow.
The thing is I’m unhappy with this body right now. I feel like I’m in transition. I’m not legitimately a size 18 since I usually get horrendous camel toe in size 18 pants and I don’t fit into size 18 jackets. But I’m not exactly a size 20 either, because the pants are too big and the shirts are boxy/big and frankly, I don’t want to be shopping at Addition Elle anymore. I want to be able to shop just about anywhere. I want clothes that will make me feel fabulous. Because I have to say that feeling beautiful, as I have in the last couple of months is probably the most exciting thing I have felt in years. There are times now when I look in the mirror and I know that according to society I’m still a “big girl” but I also know 95% of people would agree, I’m working what I have. Some people might feel like that every day, or feel like that fairly often and so they take it for granted but I haven’t looked in the mirror and genuine enjoyed, let alone appreciated what I see since I was a child. For the first time in my life, I approve of myself. That’s an odd feeling to go from a vague sense of disapproval and disappointment in yourself to approving of the way of you look, the decisions you make (not always but better than the past). I feel like a grown up with choices. But I also feel like a kid playing dress up, trying on different personas and finding out that the way I look can be a fun thing, it’s not a dreary prospect to get dressed and see all the glaringly wrong angles and dashed hopes of outfits that should have looked good but didn’t, couldn’t, because my body didn’t have defined curves and angles as it does now.
So, I’m making a list. To try and get things sorted out so that I’m not hamstrung until August. Maybe I can fix this; maybe knowing is half the battle. Maybe I have some say in this- maybe it’s not beyond my control. Maybe I can get what I want.
1. Buy a light therapy box. Okay, we have two years worth of evidence to back up this expenditure. Every year beginning in August I begin to feel better somehow- more alive and energized and despite the fact that I don’t like the humidity I feel more like myself and I can wake up and get to the gym. I can ride my bike and walk to get runkie and I can play tennis and do so much more without feeling like I’d rather be on the couch with a loaf of French bread, cheese and wine. My hope in purchasing a light therapy box is that it will give me that mood boost and energy and efficiency I seem to have during the height of summer. Odd though, that it peaks in August/September and July and October seem to be transition months. What does that say about me, I have 2 great months, 2 okay months and the rest are just write-offs? And why don’t the good times start sooner, in June, peaking in July.August/September? Could that delayed and short onset of good times be because of how northerly we are up here? I also noticed that my tomatoes didn’t ripen until the end of September, whereas back home, back east, by July you have juicy tomatoes falling off the vines. Hmmm. All the more reason for me to simulate sunlight now, as soon as I can.
2. Make a gym schedule for March, start now. Stick with it. Rewards built into schedule.
3.More protein. No more cottage cheese. It’s boring and I’m sick of it. Switch to yogurt and protein powder mixed with berries. Find protein powder that can be mixed with water. More nuts.
Other things happened, too of course. Work ramped up from busy and unsatisfying to crazy busy and unbearable. We went on a family vacation. Mondo got sicker. Coming home to see him so weak and disoriented was hard for me. I could not watch him suffer for much longer. It was too hard for me to see him like that. And I knew that my decision would ultimately be as much about putting us at ease as it was about putting him to rest. We were there with him as he passed away and it felt surreal to watch my little grumpy buddy slip away from us after the injection. When the vet left, we held him and buried our faces in his fur, touching his belly and stroking him in intimate ways he never let us do when he was alive because he was so “boundaried.” And I felt so guilty for being so curious to finally touch him unimpeded by his usually violent response to any unsolicited and often, solicited, attempts at touch. I wasn’t sure if it was disrespectful to bury my face against his body and breathe him in, but I needed to feel him and experience him; to know him one last time. I think he would have understood the impulse to touch him, finally, at last.
And then December rolled around and work got even worse. I was working late and working through lunch and when I got home I was too tired to do anything and I wasn’t eating right during the day so by the time I got home I was voracious and felt completely justified saying, “I deserve take out and I’ll get my shit together tomorrow.” But I never did.
And then January, work finally went back to just being busy towards the middle of the month and we got a new puppy to help fill the hole left by Mondo and for that first week I was so content and so happy about having a new being to love and know, I didn’t feel out of control around food at all. But that kind of contentment doesn’t last long, and so I was quickly back to feeling like I had before: not quite depressed, but not quite enjoying my existence either. Not able to exercise, not able to take care of myself for anything more than brief bursts (usually brought on by scale-scares).
Now February is almost over and I’ve been yo-yoing between 253 and 257. Sometimes I get as low as 251 and then I blow it. And my stomach is huge. Somehow I manage to fit into lots of 1x’s (18/20) but my waist is 41 inches, technically a size 22. I feel like a freak. I don’t know why my abdomen is sticking out so much in proportion with the rest of me. Fiona went to England in early September so I haven’t been to a Pilates class since then, hence my enormous stomach I guess. And since I haven’t been exercising much at all, including doing core work, all my weight seems to be going to my stomach. I don’t want to be bitchy here, but I am meant to be hourglass shaped, not apple. At least apple shapes usually have the benefit of shapely legs. But I have big, gi-normous breasts, an abdomen that threatens to exceed the breadth of my bosom, and big legs, featuring the ever attractive “cankle”. I don’t need this shit and wearing stupid spanx is a recipe for a yeast infection, but I have to tame this tummy somehow.
The thing is I’m unhappy with this body right now. I feel like I’m in transition. I’m not legitimately a size 18 since I usually get horrendous camel toe in size 18 pants and I don’t fit into size 18 jackets. But I’m not exactly a size 20 either, because the pants are too big and the shirts are boxy/big and frankly, I don’t want to be shopping at Addition Elle anymore. I want to be able to shop just about anywhere. I want clothes that will make me feel fabulous. Because I have to say that feeling beautiful, as I have in the last couple of months is probably the most exciting thing I have felt in years. There are times now when I look in the mirror and I know that according to society I’m still a “big girl” but I also know 95% of people would agree, I’m working what I have. Some people might feel like that every day, or feel like that fairly often and so they take it for granted but I haven’t looked in the mirror and genuine enjoyed, let alone appreciated what I see since I was a child. For the first time in my life, I approve of myself. That’s an odd feeling to go from a vague sense of disapproval and disappointment in yourself to approving of the way of you look, the decisions you make (not always but better than the past). I feel like a grown up with choices. But I also feel like a kid playing dress up, trying on different personas and finding out that the way I look can be a fun thing, it’s not a dreary prospect to get dressed and see all the glaringly wrong angles and dashed hopes of outfits that should have looked good but didn’t, couldn’t, because my body didn’t have defined curves and angles as it does now.
So, I’m making a list. To try and get things sorted out so that I’m not hamstrung until August. Maybe I can fix this; maybe knowing is half the battle. Maybe I have some say in this- maybe it’s not beyond my control. Maybe I can get what I want.
1. Buy a light therapy box. Okay, we have two years worth of evidence to back up this expenditure. Every year beginning in August I begin to feel better somehow- more alive and energized and despite the fact that I don’t like the humidity I feel more like myself and I can wake up and get to the gym. I can ride my bike and walk to get runkie and I can play tennis and do so much more without feeling like I’d rather be on the couch with a loaf of French bread, cheese and wine. My hope in purchasing a light therapy box is that it will give me that mood boost and energy and efficiency I seem to have during the height of summer. Odd though, that it peaks in August/September and July and October seem to be transition months. What does that say about me, I have 2 great months, 2 okay months and the rest are just write-offs? And why don’t the good times start sooner, in June, peaking in July.August/September? Could that delayed and short onset of good times be because of how northerly we are up here? I also noticed that my tomatoes didn’t ripen until the end of September, whereas back home, back east, by July you have juicy tomatoes falling off the vines. Hmmm. All the more reason for me to simulate sunlight now, as soon as I can.
2. Make a gym schedule for March, start now. Stick with it. Rewards built into schedule.
3.More protein. No more cottage cheese. It’s boring and I’m sick of it. Switch to yogurt and protein powder mixed with berries. Find protein powder that can be mixed with water. More nuts.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Imaginary This
I have to stop with the long posts. They're killing me. I log onto my own blog and I'm like, "Ugh, it's too much work to mouse through all of this." I can only imagine what a reader would think. Good thing this blog's only visitor is me....Today is awful. Kevin worked, but he was supposed to be off. After learning that he was going to work I decided I'd wake up when I wanted, go to the gym and spend the day dallying with the dog out in the sunshine.
This is what happened instead: I woke up just as Kevin was leaving for work. There is nothing more depressing than watching your spouse's back, with whom you had hoped to spend the day, disappear through the front door. Then I went onto the computer. And then I stayed there. For eight hours. I went from blog to blog and most of them were about weight loss surgery. Actually that's been happening a lot. I get on to the computer to check my e-mail and then spend two hours reading about protein shakes and hair loss and incision scars and googling the bariatric surgeon in my area, over and over again.
I even sent Kevin a sad, manipulative e-mail about how I hadn't eaten and wouldn't, until he came home. (I had eaten, but I was peckish when I wrote that e-mail). And I really was toying with the idea of not eating and letting him come home to a depressed, pajama-ed, starving and low blood sugar-crazy wife who demanded he soothe her with junk food.
But something stopped me. I ate a sandwich and some wasabi black beans and a peach and then I removed the chipped toenail polish that has been causing me to feel self-conscious and then I puttered while my food digested. And then I decided to break up my pity party pour mois and do something really jarring, really meaningful.
So I put my old tae bo dvd in and made my way through it. Last summer, when I started all of this health and fitnessing I did it a couple of times and it kicked my ass. I think I made it through 15 minutes a couple of times (read 1, maybe 2x) and after I was exhausted and my legs hurt for days. Once, I actually completed the whole thing with Kevin. But that was a year ago and I haven't been as consistent with my working out. So how would I do now?
I did okay. I had to get back to butterfly-ing during some of the cardio kicking sequences (I could usually handle the slow-mo version for the reps of kicking, but once we double-timed it I was like, nuh-uh Billy!). I made it through and it was difficult, but I'm not wrecked and ready to fall over. In fact, I could probably get on a bike for an hour if I wanted to. Though I'm sure I would be more tired if I could actually follow the moves. Maybe all this cockiness is due to the fact that I was mostly flapping around and then falling down with laughter during my favourite part, when Billy says, "Imaginary this, you gotta kick higher!" But still. I did it. I kicked higher-ish.
And it was just what I needed to purge the crazy right out of me.
Imaginary that?
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Shame on Me Redux
Well, first let’s get down to shiny brass tacks: I am out of control around food. I just can’t seem to stop turning to it to ease my sense of general sense of discomfort. It’s like I have an itch under my skin, starting around 5:00 pm each day for the last week, and the only way to scratch it is with food. Large quantities of food.
I haven’t binged like this in a long time.
But if I were honest and prone to peeling away self-subterfuge I would probably say that’s not true, I might even recognize a pattern. I might shake my head and admit that the bingeing is increasing, slowly over a period of months, increasing in frequency and quantity, and as long as the progression is slow, I guess I feel comfortable sighing and saying in a voice of bewilderment, “I haven’t binged like this in a long time.”
But this week, this week takes the cake. A big cake, with icing and layers and pretty piping on the sides. This week I started bingeing to the point where I wake up stuffed from the night before, hung over from the vast quantities devoured.
Yesterday I went to work and I had stomach cramps from all the food I’d eaten the night before. It’s been a long time since I binged to the point of gastro-intestinal upset. This is bad. This is getting back to old, dangerous habits.
There was a time when I would intentionally-by-accident check out and eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream. Within two hours of a double date with Ben and Jerry, I was usually flushed and bent double, cursing myself for eating dairy when I know I have lactose intolerance. Severe lactose intolerance. Sometimes I would spend hours in the bathroom, shitting my brains out, in horrible pain, only to crawl into bed at two am so weak that my muscles shook.
But it’s been well over a year since I did anything that drastic. That self-destructive. But this week has seen me creeping towards binges of that magnitude. On Sunday night I ate a third of a cherry pie (what’s with me and cherries?), half of a container of 7 layer dip and half a bag of Tostitos to accompany said dip, and, an oyster sandwich (don’t ask). On Monday night I ate the rest of the chips and dip and another third of the pie- after I’d already eaten my dinner. And right now I want desperately to wander into the kitchen, throw the lid off of the cherry pie and eat the rest. That binge-y little kid inside me is whispering, “You have a fresh pot of coffee, what goes better with coffee than pie!” And I am seriously considering it….
But first, first, I should tell you a few things about me. About why this is so hard, about why I am willing to blow 30+ lbs lost for cherry pie and fresh coffee, but mostly for cherry pie.
I lost that 30 + lbs last August/September. Since then I have been trying in typical OCPD fashion to re-create every detail of those two months, with the (crazy) hope that if I do everything exactly as I did it then, I will restart my weight loss. But from October onwards, no matter how much I tried, how much I fiddled with my food, it didn’t work. I just stayed at my plateau. And when I tried to increase my exercise I ended up eating more because I was hungry like a mother fucker.
And now it’s July 24th. So close to August. I am secretly convinced that if I can recreate every detail from last August and September I will finally unlock the magical secret known as weight loss again and lose another 30+ lbs. Because, and this is key, it happened last August/September and those were the only two elements I have not been able to incorporate in my twelve month expedition of re-creation. (That and having two good friends at work who provided me with wonderful support, but they’ve moved on and even my OCPD brain has accepted they are not reproducible elements).
The pressure!
I can’t do it. I have tried. Every couple of weeks I step on the scale and it’s 266 at the low end, 268 at the high. (Though right now it’s hovering at 271). And then I stamp my foot and goddamnit I’m gonna do something about this. So I get a book from the library, You on a Diet, Fitness for Women. Or I revisit the South Beach Diet. Start the food diary again. Or I buy a fucking bike. Or I re-dedicate myself to the gym and eating at 10 am to keep my blood sugar low. And I try. I really fucking try to do everything right. On schedule, on time, just like last year. And no matter what I do, it gets fucked up. Because quite frankly, it is boring to eat bland salad in the winter what with the cardboard tomatoes and the flavourless cucumbers. And the cooking and the chopping and dicing and the clean up and the Tupperware back and forth to work and all the thinking and planning and doing that it takes…. It makes me exhausted and so I come home and I just say yes, yes, yes when Kevin asks if I’d rather just order pizza than make chicken breast. Again. And so I stay at 266-268, size 22.
And now August looms and the pressure is incredible. Irresistible. If only I could love cottage cheese again. And enjoy those stupid cheese sticks and stick to portion sizes and order salad, not fries. If I could do all of that and more, I could lose 30 + lbs this August/September.
But it’s not just that.
There is always something else. And this week has been tougher than most. And here’s why.
There is a new guy at work (he got the job I competed for but I don’t hold a grudge). He’s okay, a bit of a Cliff (I’ll explain one day, I’m sure), but okay. We work in public relations so he’s a writer, like I’m a writer. And so he googled me using my real name to see some of my articles.
I haven’t googled myself in a while because I haven’t published anything in a long while. And so I didn’t know that the first thing to pop up isn’t an article written by me, it’s an article about me.
So on his third day, new guy pops into my cubicle and says, “I need to talk to you.”
I’m all, “Okay, shoot!”
He sits down in the chair for guests (I mention this only because it’s a major status symbol where I work to have a cubicle big enough to have guests, and a chair designated for those guests is an even bigger status symbol. And, because I am uncomfortable talking about what happens next and I’m stalling…) New guy leans in and whispers, “I googled you to find some articles you'd written.”
Right away I put on my happy, breezy face and wonder what monstrosity of mine he could be referring to. All of the articles on the net by me, (last time I’d checked) had been amongst my earliest. “Oh God,” I said, “I can only imagine what kind of crap is up there. It’s always the shittiest stuff I wrote that lingers the longest.”
New guy says, “Well I just want you to know, I may say some things sometimes and I’m just kidding around. I would never mean anything by it. I’m not a violent person. But I could take something too far, in a joke. Without knowing… If I ever say anything that offends you, let me know. I don't want you to feel scared at all.” He looks serious and sad. He’s trying to convey that he’s a caring person. And my stomach drops.
What the fuck did he read about me? What’s on there?
I wave my hand dismissively, “I don’t know which article you mean…. But I worked with eating disorders for years and in that world, in the non-profit world, your life is an open book. Nothing to be ashamed of. So….” I smile. But inside, inside I am fretting, I am anxious. I am very upset. What article is he talking about and why did he feel the need to come and tell me he read something private, personal about me, and wants to reassure me? I add, “You get used to sharing pieces of your own life in that world because it makes it easier for students, clients—the people you’re working to help-- to relate to you. So they know that you know. So I’m used to it.”
Except, I’m not used to it at my corporate job. And I was creeped out.
New guy left my cube and I resisted the urge to google myself for about 20 seconds. When I did, I found the article he was talking about. It was the first to appear.
It was about a fundraising event I put together a couple of years ago for a women’s assault centre. In the article I talk about the sexual and physical abuse I lived through as a kid (which motivated me to get involved in women’s health issues) and incidentally the article also touched on my relationship with my mother (who did nothing when I told her about the abuse).
It was written a couple of years ago. So I didn’t remember much. I talked a lot back then. To a lot of people. I was in the healing phase where you tell your story, almost compulsively, you put it out there so you don’t have to own it so much anymore, so it’s not a secret, your dark secret.
I tried to read the article, but I felt queasy. I didn’t make it very far. In the second paragraph there’s a quote from me. “They basically used me as a human punching bag.” And I had to stop. I didn’t want to read and remember the rest of the article. The article he read. As he sat across from me. I didn’t want to read the rest of the article he was so horrified by/disgusted about/uncomfortable with that he felt the need to come into my cubicle and tell me he wasn’t a threat to my safety or wellbeing. I didn’t want to know what he knew. I had put that article, that time, behind me. Especially in this new, corporate world where efficiency and professionalism (or the appearance of it at least) are treasured above all else. Everything else. Where you have no past, not even a present, beyond the work you put out. You are a machine, not a person. Certainly not a person who was molested as a little girl, not once, but twice and who’s mother was so cowed by life, by the sheer weight of being a mother, that she did nothing, could do nothing to help you and sometimes even socialized with one of your abusers, her brother. I felt so tawdry and exposed. And so I have been eating, eating and eating all this week. Like I’m trying to rebuild a layer of the wall I had dismantled last August/September. To build up my reserves and shore up the fortification of me. To blot out that moment when I googled myself and saw what he saw and realized that the new guy knew my deepest, most personal details. And I had put it out there. And it wasn’t fair. I put it out there when I needed it out there, a long time ago, for people who would understand. And it’s still floating in the ether. Worse, it’s still floating around in my veins. Always there, inducing shame- injecting shame into everything. Even though I had years of counselling. Years of journaling. Years of talking about it, working with other women who have lived through it, raising funds so other women could access the help I got- I spent years in it- the shame is still here, like a scarlett letter. My shameful secret. And that shame eats away at me in a million different ways, at a million different times, but the source of the shame is always the same.
Me. The shame is on me.
I haven’t binged like this in a long time.
But if I were honest and prone to peeling away self-subterfuge I would probably say that’s not true, I might even recognize a pattern. I might shake my head and admit that the bingeing is increasing, slowly over a period of months, increasing in frequency and quantity, and as long as the progression is slow, I guess I feel comfortable sighing and saying in a voice of bewilderment, “I haven’t binged like this in a long time.”
But this week, this week takes the cake. A big cake, with icing and layers and pretty piping on the sides. This week I started bingeing to the point where I wake up stuffed from the night before, hung over from the vast quantities devoured.
Yesterday I went to work and I had stomach cramps from all the food I’d eaten the night before. It’s been a long time since I binged to the point of gastro-intestinal upset. This is bad. This is getting back to old, dangerous habits.
There was a time when I would intentionally-by-accident check out and eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream. Within two hours of a double date with Ben and Jerry, I was usually flushed and bent double, cursing myself for eating dairy when I know I have lactose intolerance. Severe lactose intolerance. Sometimes I would spend hours in the bathroom, shitting my brains out, in horrible pain, only to crawl into bed at two am so weak that my muscles shook.
But it’s been well over a year since I did anything that drastic. That self-destructive. But this week has seen me creeping towards binges of that magnitude. On Sunday night I ate a third of a cherry pie (what’s with me and cherries?), half of a container of 7 layer dip and half a bag of Tostitos to accompany said dip, and, an oyster sandwich (don’t ask). On Monday night I ate the rest of the chips and dip and another third of the pie- after I’d already eaten my dinner. And right now I want desperately to wander into the kitchen, throw the lid off of the cherry pie and eat the rest. That binge-y little kid inside me is whispering, “You have a fresh pot of coffee, what goes better with coffee than pie!” And I am seriously considering it….
But first, first, I should tell you a few things about me. About why this is so hard, about why I am willing to blow 30+ lbs lost for cherry pie and fresh coffee, but mostly for cherry pie.
I lost that 30 + lbs last August/September. Since then I have been trying in typical OCPD fashion to re-create every detail of those two months, with the (crazy) hope that if I do everything exactly as I did it then, I will restart my weight loss. But from October onwards, no matter how much I tried, how much I fiddled with my food, it didn’t work. I just stayed at my plateau. And when I tried to increase my exercise I ended up eating more because I was hungry like a mother fucker.
And now it’s July 24th. So close to August. I am secretly convinced that if I can recreate every detail from last August and September I will finally unlock the magical secret known as weight loss again and lose another 30+ lbs. Because, and this is key, it happened last August/September and those were the only two elements I have not been able to incorporate in my twelve month expedition of re-creation. (That and having two good friends at work who provided me with wonderful support, but they’ve moved on and even my OCPD brain has accepted they are not reproducible elements).
The pressure!
I can’t do it. I have tried. Every couple of weeks I step on the scale and it’s 266 at the low end, 268 at the high. (Though right now it’s hovering at 271). And then I stamp my foot and goddamnit I’m gonna do something about this. So I get a book from the library, You on a Diet, Fitness for Women. Or I revisit the South Beach Diet. Start the food diary again. Or I buy a fucking bike. Or I re-dedicate myself to the gym and eating at 10 am to keep my blood sugar low. And I try. I really fucking try to do everything right. On schedule, on time, just like last year. And no matter what I do, it gets fucked up. Because quite frankly, it is boring to eat bland salad in the winter what with the cardboard tomatoes and the flavourless cucumbers. And the cooking and the chopping and dicing and the clean up and the Tupperware back and forth to work and all the thinking and planning and doing that it takes…. It makes me exhausted and so I come home and I just say yes, yes, yes when Kevin asks if I’d rather just order pizza than make chicken breast. Again. And so I stay at 266-268, size 22.
And now August looms and the pressure is incredible. Irresistible. If only I could love cottage cheese again. And enjoy those stupid cheese sticks and stick to portion sizes and order salad, not fries. If I could do all of that and more, I could lose 30 + lbs this August/September.
But it’s not just that.
There is always something else. And this week has been tougher than most. And here’s why.
There is a new guy at work (he got the job I competed for but I don’t hold a grudge). He’s okay, a bit of a Cliff (I’ll explain one day, I’m sure), but okay. We work in public relations so he’s a writer, like I’m a writer. And so he googled me using my real name to see some of my articles.
I haven’t googled myself in a while because I haven’t published anything in a long while. And so I didn’t know that the first thing to pop up isn’t an article written by me, it’s an article about me.
So on his third day, new guy pops into my cubicle and says, “I need to talk to you.”
I’m all, “Okay, shoot!”
He sits down in the chair for guests (I mention this only because it’s a major status symbol where I work to have a cubicle big enough to have guests, and a chair designated for those guests is an even bigger status symbol. And, because I am uncomfortable talking about what happens next and I’m stalling…) New guy leans in and whispers, “I googled you to find some articles you'd written.”
Right away I put on my happy, breezy face and wonder what monstrosity of mine he could be referring to. All of the articles on the net by me, (last time I’d checked) had been amongst my earliest. “Oh God,” I said, “I can only imagine what kind of crap is up there. It’s always the shittiest stuff I wrote that lingers the longest.”
New guy says, “Well I just want you to know, I may say some things sometimes and I’m just kidding around. I would never mean anything by it. I’m not a violent person. But I could take something too far, in a joke. Without knowing… If I ever say anything that offends you, let me know. I don't want you to feel scared at all.” He looks serious and sad. He’s trying to convey that he’s a caring person. And my stomach drops.
What the fuck did he read about me? What’s on there?
I wave my hand dismissively, “I don’t know which article you mean…. But I worked with eating disorders for years and in that world, in the non-profit world, your life is an open book. Nothing to be ashamed of. So….” I smile. But inside, inside I am fretting, I am anxious. I am very upset. What article is he talking about and why did he feel the need to come and tell me he read something private, personal about me, and wants to reassure me? I add, “You get used to sharing pieces of your own life in that world because it makes it easier for students, clients—the people you’re working to help-- to relate to you. So they know that you know. So I’m used to it.”
Except, I’m not used to it at my corporate job. And I was creeped out.
New guy left my cube and I resisted the urge to google myself for about 20 seconds. When I did, I found the article he was talking about. It was the first to appear.
It was about a fundraising event I put together a couple of years ago for a women’s assault centre. In the article I talk about the sexual and physical abuse I lived through as a kid (which motivated me to get involved in women’s health issues) and incidentally the article also touched on my relationship with my mother (who did nothing when I told her about the abuse).
It was written a couple of years ago. So I didn’t remember much. I talked a lot back then. To a lot of people. I was in the healing phase where you tell your story, almost compulsively, you put it out there so you don’t have to own it so much anymore, so it’s not a secret, your dark secret.
I tried to read the article, but I felt queasy. I didn’t make it very far. In the second paragraph there’s a quote from me. “They basically used me as a human punching bag.” And I had to stop. I didn’t want to read and remember the rest of the article. The article he read. As he sat across from me. I didn’t want to read the rest of the article he was so horrified by/disgusted about/uncomfortable with that he felt the need to come into my cubicle and tell me he wasn’t a threat to my safety or wellbeing. I didn’t want to know what he knew. I had put that article, that time, behind me. Especially in this new, corporate world where efficiency and professionalism (or the appearance of it at least) are treasured above all else. Everything else. Where you have no past, not even a present, beyond the work you put out. You are a machine, not a person. Certainly not a person who was molested as a little girl, not once, but twice and who’s mother was so cowed by life, by the sheer weight of being a mother, that she did nothing, could do nothing to help you and sometimes even socialized with one of your abusers, her brother. I felt so tawdry and exposed. And so I have been eating, eating and eating all this week. Like I’m trying to rebuild a layer of the wall I had dismantled last August/September. To build up my reserves and shore up the fortification of me. To blot out that moment when I googled myself and saw what he saw and realized that the new guy knew my deepest, most personal details. And I had put it out there. And it wasn’t fair. I put it out there when I needed it out there, a long time ago, for people who would understand. And it’s still floating in the ether. Worse, it’s still floating around in my veins. Always there, inducing shame- injecting shame into everything. Even though I had years of counselling. Years of journaling. Years of talking about it, working with other women who have lived through it, raising funds so other women could access the help I got- I spent years in it- the shame is still here, like a scarlett letter. My shameful secret. And that shame eats away at me in a million different ways, at a million different times, but the source of the shame is always the same.
Me. The shame is on me.
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