My teeny, tiny, 2015 existential crisis……

I’m not ashamed to admit that I have been in regular therapy for the last 5 years. Sometimes I go once a month, sometimes I see her every two weeks. I consider it essential to my overall wellness.

 

It is one of the most important relationships in my life. She knows me. The messy me. The amazing me. The real me.

In my humble opinion, a therapist who is your match is capable of both helping you process and can call you on your bullshit. They notice patterns and help root you to the earth. (Note: I am not a therapist or counselor, these are my opinions.)

Lately, I’ve had a bit of trouble understanding my purpose. If that sounds like self-indulgent thinking – I know, I’m struggling with it too. 

Why am I here? What are my gifts? What am I supposed to do with them? How can I make my existence worth something of value? Who am I here to help?

The last question is sort of the nut --- who am I here to help? Why is this question so important? It’s important because I have equated purpose with helping/fixing/smoothing over/repairing for the majority of my life.

Is this a bad thing? No, not necessarily. Is it worth looking at? Yes, it sure is.

It may surprise you to learn that while I am college educated, I do not have a degree. None of any kind. Not a certificate, AS or BA. An advanced degree is not in my life’s arc.

My resume reads like a mosaic and is nowhere near linear. The common thread that binds these jobs and roles together is the function of helping. It is what I do. I see vulnerabilities, and opportunities to be of service and I do it. Not in a “look at what I just did” way, just – that is what I do.

I have minimized the importance of helping. It doesn’t seem special, doesn’t require a superior level of mental bandwidth like people with ‘real’ skills. Unless you’ve honed your helper skill set into something valuable to the world you’re kind of stuck. The desire to be useful is deafening – but what the hell do you do with that?

So where am I going with this? Okay, I’m getting there.

A mental shift happened for me in the past couple of weeks. I’m really trying to pinpoint what occurred to shift the tide because I like understanding where ideas and attitudes are born. At any rate, I have come to appreciate what it means to be a helper in this world. 

Helping can look like a lot of different things but what I am talking about is helping by acting as a mirror for others. What I’m talking about is being real and transparent and relatable. What I’m talking about is being a soft place to land. What I am talking about is offering neutral (as possible) observations.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I accept that this is who I am and I’m finally really okay with that.

When several people over the course of two weeks say – “Thank you, what you said to me made a difference” & “I’m glad you’re in my life” & “spending time with you makes my day” – at some point you gotta believe you’re doing something right.

I’m not going to negate my self-worth because I don’t fit neatly into check boxes and columns. 

I'm going to celebrate what makes me April, for better or worse.

The one where I mistakenly let Instagram make me feel bad about my body…

As an Android user I was late to the Instagram party. Insta is fun, I enjoy it. I am not a designer, nor am I a photographer - but I have a blast with perspective, light and filters. Instagram has been the only social media I let my tween & young teen use because I believe it is relatively safe. I follow nearly all of the National Parks, my friends and colleagues, celebrities I like, tons of animals, poets that speak to me, and a hand full of makeup and fashion people/companies. 

I’m a pretty happy camper so long as I stay in my own feed. Images of things and people that interest me in an endless stream. 

I made an interesting observation recently. It was the 2^nd or 3^rd time in a week that I was exploring the “feed of everything” – looking for content for my other work, fun things to share with my friends when I noticed how poorly I was feeling about myself. Each time the feed was full of young women with very little clothing on. (Note: I have no problem with nudity and I love the human body.) Perfectly shot, perfectly lit, perfectly perfect abs and asses. Really, really beautiful people. Them= perfect, me= not even close. I was allowing my Compare Button to get pushed.

So I began thinking on this. Why was I allowing this content to make me feel so shabby? I have always been reasonably confident in my own skin. But I could not escape the imagery that ran like a loop through my head. Perfect, pert, perky, hard, and toned bodies. 

The hard truth is that even after losing nearly 120 pounds (in a little more than a year), even with very regular exercise my “in progress” body is a little messy. I have abs, but they lie beneath a fat pad and excess skin. I have seven, inch long scars where the laparoscopic instruments were inserted into my body.

The cool truth is that I’m totally devoted to my fitness. Most of the time I bring my A game because exercise makes my brain happy. I am only in competition with myself & I am constantly working to improve my strength and stamina. When Hermine (one of my amazing Barre instructors at Peace of Mind Pilates) places her hand on my back and tells me how lovely my form is, I do a little mental happy dance. When I’m making it rain with sweat I don’t give a shit about what my body looks like doing it. I’m a beast and I do amazing, ridiculously fucking insane things with my body. I am strong and determined.

I am ashamed when I allow my Compare Button to get pushed because I work diligently to escape that mental combat. Measuring myself against another is totally absurd and I feel like a fool every time I sink into the muck of not good enoughness. 

I was not born perfect, I have lived imperfectly, I have made errors and mistakes. I have unintentionally hurt people I love. I have been hurt. I have been an asshole. I will screw up again.

I also know this…

I am simply, a sum of my parts. My successes, my mistakes, my touchdowns and my fumbles. This body is almost 40. It has given birth TWICE to healthy babies. It has climbed to the top of the rope in the school gymnasium & thrown people up into the air (caught them too).

I have expression lines. I have white hair. I am curious and creative. I have incredible stamina. I practice loving myself because modeling love and tolerance is my legacy to my children.

I do ideas, I do kindness, I do empathy & compassion, I do humor, I do passion, I do hard work. 

Comparison is a waste of my time and drains my vitality.

I love myself. Truly.

I am enough.

The one where I buy a new washing machine and throw everything away...

Yesterday was my 5th monthly appointment with the Bariatric office.

Attended Life Skills Class? YES
Attended Nutrition Class? YES, passed quiz with a 100%
Lost required lbs? YES, have lost 22 to date (needed to lose 17)
Crafted practice menus? YES
Ate and logged only liquids for 3 days? YES
Exercising regularly? YES - I'm proud of my fitness ♥

Next month I will attend my last appointment where everything is tied up in a bow and my case will be sent off for insurance acceptance.

This is a metric fuckton of work.  No, I'm not being dramatic here. The reason it takes so.damn.long is because it should, much to my dismay at times. I am very tired of waiting. Yet a question floats around in my head.  Are you serious? Not in a snarky, bitchy way.  Just - are you serious? April, are you ready? Most days my subconscious responds with a determined YES.  Other days, when I am struggling (not to diet, just to be one with the fact I'm really going to do this) I fold inward and wish this wasn't something I had to deal with.  I mean for Pete's sake, aren't there enough irons in the fire right now? The fact remains I have not, in 25 years managed to lose and MAINTAIN a significant amount of weight so I keep going.

Also! Yesterday morning my washing machine took it's last breaths.  Um...no.  We are a family of 4 and create an obscene amount of dirty laundry.  So my husband and I ran out and bought a new machine.  We loaded it, unloaded it, hauled out the old machine from the basement and put the new one in place. Laundry had been at a standstill, only being done by my more patient half because every single load had to be hand wrung out.  Only the necessities were being washed and I had a mountain of less important items to get clean.

So over the course of the day, he washed it all and brought up basket after basket after basket of clothing for me.  PS>  yes...I function on the back end of the laundry train because I'm just anal enough to reject what my family considers "folded".  I was folding and sighing deeply.  Each person's pile getting higher and higher.  Jeff snuck off with the kid's piles in an attempt to make the job seem less daunting.  Suddenly, I experienced this strange wave of certainty about a piece of clothing I moved in my closet.  I was never, ever going to put that back on my body.  Wearing it, even trying it on and rejecting it in the past made me feel like shit about myself.  Yet, here it hung.  Clothes have a voice and this was saying...."you're not good enough."

Bullshit.

I took that piece off it's hangar and started a new pile called .... Donate. Grabbed the next item in the closet and thought long and hard.  When had I last touched this? Did it make me feel spectacular to wear?  The answers was, a damn long time ago and no. The Donate pile began to grow as I made my way through the closet and sets of drawers.  See, I have two dressers and a full (small) closet. I know...that's nuts. I sent my children off for a pile of kitchen trash bags and began filling them.  I pulled out some special pieces for a friend I knew might want them, but otherwise - be gone. You do not make me feel pretty, or special and frankly at this point I don't even care how much I spent on you.  As I made my way through drawers I found set upon set of sexy lingerie. I felt stupid in every single one of them. They represented a time when I was trying to LOOK sexy instead of BE sexy.  So honestly....fuck all of that. Into the trash they went. I AM sexy. The end.

SEVEN full to nearly bursting kitchen trash bags of clothing, gowns, handbags, and shoes later and I feel light as a feather. I cannot believe how much my wardrobe was weighing me down.  As a fat person I equated tons of choices with normalcy. I hung on to clothing for numerous dysfunctional reasons.  "It was expensive", "It might fit again someday", "It looked good in the store"....yet all those things did was distract me.  They did not help me feel, look, or be better. Twenty two pounds down and 5 months of very regular exercise have me loving and respecting my body in a way I haven't in a long time. Much of the stuff I purged didn't fit well or at all anymore anyway.

What's left you ask? How could there possibly be anything left April? Hahaha....there ARE things in my closet, I won't be naked for the next 6 months. The only things left are the things I wear all the time, that I love and make me feel good to wear.  I might be down to the very bare minimum which includes some gorgeous gowns and lots of fitness wear and a few in betweens - but I feel utterly freed by knowing what is there and being able to put my hands on all of it.

What's weighing you down?

The warp and weft

This photo is from 2008.  Six years ago I had Weight Watcher'd myself to my lowest adult weight.

In this picture I weigh about 85-90 pounds less than I do presently.

I'm beginning to realize and accept that the real struggle with the process of WLS is the crisis between who you feel like and what you look like.

I'm impatient and nervous. I'm hopeful and a little scared.  I want them to set my date so I can stop feeling like I am out at sea.

Working on my head, working on my heart.  Digging in and loving the BEFORE me, because the AFTER me happens to be the same girl.

Proceed with caution...

Public Service Announcement : 

It is NEVER a compliment to someone when you say "That person would be so attractive IF...."

Think before you offer up a compliment to a fat person that has strings attached.  Society already tells us we're worthless pieces of shit.  If for some reason a person of size has healthy self esteem or self worth, please know that much of the time it is fragile.  Why is it fragile?  Because we airbrush size 8 models into oblivion.  Fuck all of it. 

To each his/her own in the aesthetics department - due respect given as we all have our preferences.  But know that it is perhaps one of the most hurtful, disrespectful, backhanded compliments a person like me can receive.  There are no "buts" in being beautiful unless you're talking about my fantastic XL ass.

I coined Miss Such a Pretty Face over 10 years ago, in my 20s when fat acceptance wasn't a thing.

Be kind, be genuine, be real - give feedback that matters.
Don't be an asshole.

Love - Miss Such a Pretty Face