just one of the ways

As I write this it's Thursday afternoon. The weather outside is beautiful - feels like in the 50s, you can hear lawn mowers running and kids playfully screaming and laughing. Me?

I'm in my room, writhing.

Here's what happened:

I saw that a certain artist whose work I enjoy was having a giveaway on a blog, so I clicked over to join the fun. Without even searching the site I knew what to comment -- that is, what exactly I'd choose with my gift certificate, should I be the winner -- so much do I enjoy this artist's work. Upon seeing certain pieces for the first time in real life, my breath was taken, so struck was I at how perfectly the art would fit my home & family. A few months ago I finally made a purchase, and then of course kicked myself for not getting those pieces sooner.

Back to the giveaway. Of course, an extra entry if you follow said-artist on twitter, which, of course, I already was. Just to make sure, though, I clicked the link to see that 'follow' was an option. I thought that was weird, because I KNOW I had already chosen to follow her. Simply to complete the instructions for the blog giveaway, though, I clicked on 'follow', and that is when I saw the message:

This user has blocked you from following them.

I've blocked people from following me on twitter -- specifically, people whose tweets are filled with profanity (and I'm a girl who doesn't mind the swears) or vulgarity. My own logic follows: What have I done?

I emailed the artist, identifying myself as a fan and owner of their work, and told them that I noticed I had been blocked from following their tweets, and apologized on the off-chance I had been offensive.

For a mentally-healthy person, this is where they shrug, say, "Huh," and move on with their day.

Not me.

No, I stew and I wring my hands and I send text messages to a friend who knows the artist personally. I check my email obsessively, hoping for a response. Recognizing that getting outside helps at times, I step onto the back steps, closing the door behind me. I sit down while my son is telling me that, "It's not a teeter-totter, it's a totter-teeter!" and my head is in my hands. I can feel the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze, a combination I like, but cannot enjoy because my emotions are out of control. I step back inside and take a look around -- my older kids have come home from school. They are lovely children. I have a wonderful home, a beautiful life, I recognize it, but my self-doubt has taken over. What do people think of me? What is the image I portray? I can't help but wonder what percentage of my rising rage is now from how pathetic I am, the fact that the whole situation is even an issue: I'm obessing about what someone may or may not think of me -- someone who has never met me. Someone for whom I am merely a customer and a name on their computer screen.

So I let my oldest know that she is in charge while I take a time out in my room to detail just a portion of how I am affected by depression -- that even with medication and everything just as I've always wanted it to be -- I stumble and I sink. It happens. It's who I am.

****************

post-write, pre-post update:

Not three hours after I wrote this, I received a very sweet & sincere email from the artist, who apologized for the mixup and asked for my twitter address so that I could be unblocked. I was very grateful and relieved, but physically exhausted and emotionally drained from the haunting of my own thoughts.

Just when all seems to be going right, challenges often come in multiple doses applied simultaneously. When those trials are not consequences of your disobedience, they are evidence that the Lord feels you are prepared to grow more (see Prov. 3:11–12). He therefore gives you experiences that stimulate growth, understanding, and compassion which polish you for your everlasting benefit. To get you from where you are to where He wants you to be requires a lot of stretching, and that generally entails discomfort and pain.

-Richard G. Scott, Nov. '95

This quote is posted on a wall in the room where I take my class. What? I didn't tell you that I'm taking a class this term? Well, I most certainly am. Summer term, Monday through Thursday.



Which class?



Aerobic dance.



You know, I don't often vocalize my true feelings about my body: it's too much for me to talk about. Those "talks" are reserved for myself, in my head, usually when I'm alone. But on days like today, when I'm okay with it all, I can talk about it, and by talk, I mean blog. I don't vocalize it for the protection of my children, particularly my daughters. Did I ever tell you about when I had one of my worst breakdowns ever? It was almost two years ago, maybe three, I'm not certain. It involved one of my daughters telling me that her friends told her, "Your mom is fat." That cut me more deeply than anything had, in a very, very long time, or has since. In fact, just typing it, I cringed, and now tears are welling. For a very long time, I tried to find out why that bothered me so much. I only recently came to terms with that little (HUGE) upset when I realized something: the friend who said that to my daughter? Her mom is way more into appearances than I am. Waaaaaay more. And since I like me, and I like how I am, I was able to close that chapter.



Don't get me wrong: I know it's important to be physically fit. Believe me on this, it's been ingrained in me my whole life. It's also important to take care of yourself; take care of your body, and present it (appearance) in a positive way. My frustrations lie here: the assumption that just because someone is plus-sized, they're not healthy.



Health Nazi lives down the street. Once her testimony included something to the tune of, "I'm just so grateful that I have a good body, after having all my kids, I'm still in good shape...". She's said to my daughter, in front of me, as we were eating a dinner that I had prepared, "Take care of your body! You only have one!" While I can appreciate her message, because it's mostly true, I think the overkill is potentially hazardous. Being larger is equated, at times falsely, with unhealth, and if her children, who have listened to their mother chide 'being fat' their lifelong, happen to put on some weight FOR WHATEVER REASON . . . well, you can finish that thought.



One day, I asked Li'l ~j., "What do you think of your body?" She replied, "I think it's important to keep it healthy and strong. It's a gift from Heavenly Father." "Very good," I told her. Then, as an afterthought, "Sweetie, do you know that you're beautiful?" Let me say that we often tell our kids that they are beautiful, but not without adding more compliments regarding their other attributes: they're sweet, smart, special, All Things Good; we don't prioritize "beauty" over the others, but I was just curious, as the mother of a sooner-than-I-realize-teen, what she thought about her looks. [And, for the record, had anyone asked me at her age if I knew I was beautiful, the answer would have been a fierce, resounding, and sincere NO.] Her answer: "Yes, but I don't like to talk about it, like bragging, because I don't think that's a nice thing to do. But I like how I look."



Hoorae.



Back to my class: it's not easy being the old one AND the fat one in the class. I'm even older than the instructor. But the second part, the part about my being the f-word . . . I only notice that when I'm feeling especially down about myself. I can barely look in a mirror. I loathe photos of myself. But when I close my eyes, and I'm exercising, I feel like I'm using my body in a way that's beneficial, not only to me, but to my family. At the beginning of the term, we had to write down our fitness goals. Surprisingly to myself, my ultimate goal wasn't to lose weight, but to improve my cardiovascular health; I wrote that down along with a disclaimer that, of course, I'd like to lose weight, but that is secondary.



Occassionally, I will vaguely mention trying to lose weight, in casual conversation. Here's the reply I don't want to hear: "Don't be so hard on yourself -- you've had five kids!" Okay, so has my neighbor, and she could easily be mistaken for a 16-year-old. I refuse to use my children as the excuse for the main source of any self-loathing I may possess. I don't blame genetics, either. Come to think of it, I don't blame anything, or any one. No blame. It is what it is. I'm working to change it, but if it doesn't come, I'm okay with that, too.



Today a woman at work said to me, "Are you having a baby?" [I wanted so badly to say, "Currently? No -- I'm entertaining a twit."] One girl in my class asked me what my major is, and when I told her that I'm not sure, that I'm a stay-at-home mom and that this is the only class I'm taking, she asked, "So that you can lose some weight?"



I share those anecdotes, not for pity, but because I can. I'm finally at a place where I accept what I am, and I move forward. It used to be that I'd feel relatively good about myself, then take a look in the mirror or step on the scale, and my self-worth/image would plummet. Now, though, I can answer the lady at work: "No. I'm not, " and let her deal with it. I can say to the girl in class, "Yes, to lose some weight," and then when we're in the middle of a step-aerobics routine, help this ridiculously uncoordinated girl, who I'm guessing literally weighs half of what I do, learn a sequence that comes to me very easily.



I'm grateful for that quote on the wall in my classroom. Rereading it has helped me progress, in thought, action, and otherwise, more than I could have imagined when I first read it. This trial of mine has given me growth and understanding; maybe I could work on the compassion part a bit (like calling that girl uncoordinated), but I've definitely been stretched -- physically, and then some.