This blog has changed 'feels' many times. Food blog, random words blog, then there was the other blog that I have since deleted.
And I suck at updating all of them.
Today I'm posting about mental and emotional health, which ties into being healthy and being a better 'me', if I wanted to be so bold as to sound super lame and pretentious.
We're going to regress a little bit here, but I hope that it shows how far I've come.
When I was a kid, I bounced around schools a lot. Not because I was some sort of hellion, but because of life changes. I went to one school from Kindergarten to halfway through grade 2 because it was directly behind my house, and my mom had a day home with other kids that went to that school (and their younger siblings). Then she got a job out of the home, and so I went to a different school with my cousins. My Gramma watched over my cousins, and she lived about 2 blocks away from us, so she would just take me with her. I loved that school. All my fondest elementary school memories bounce back to that one, where all the kids knew my cousins already (note: my eldest cousin, the one whom I was in a class with because it was a 2/3 split, has cerebral palsy and requires constant care) and they freely accepted me into their social groups. It was great. Then my dad got transferred to northern SK, and we moved up to Goodsoil, SK for grade 3. If you ask my mom how long we lived there, she can give it to you right down to the minute. I don't really remember a lot about being up there, and it was my first experience living in a very small town. Of course, being a kid, you're a little more resilient and can take the change.
When we moved back to Saskatoon, I attended the elementary school closest to us. While yes, I did make some good friends, some of which I keep in touch with now, it was pure hell to go to school there. Showing up in grade 4, after these kids have all been together for 4 years (or more, if they also went to preschool), and being behind in math because they forgot to teach us all of the times tables when I was in Goodsoil (or something), was just awful. Add to it that I was a chunky kid who was a total teachers pet and admittedly (now) a know-it-all... I was teased mercilessly. If they had insulted my intelligence, that would be one thing. But it was always, ALWAYS, about my weight. Always. I remember one kid, when we were in grade 6, made some disparaging remark about my weight and I pushed him into a desk and he ran into the chair. I was so terrified at what I did that I hid in my locker/cubby/whatever and cried. Now that I remember that, I think to myself and wonder why I was crying that I hurt him physically, when he should have apologized for hurting me emotionally? Granted, I know that lashing out physically is definitely not the way to respond, but I was 12. And some boy called me fat.
And that was essentially the beginning of it. The beginning of me trying NOT to lash out physically at all the douchebags calling me fat. I'd like to say that the jokes ended as we got older, but they didn't. They carried through to high school and if you add the constant insults along with hormones and the yearning to be in a relationship, it makes a very volatile cocktail of emotion. I had to mentally tell myself not to get angry, to just keep it all in and calm down and just be nice.
Kids can be cruel. In my head, I thought that if I asked a boy out, even if he said no, it would be amicable and stay between us. Why did I ever think that? Boys would tell all their friends, and they would laugh at me. Literally laugh at me. The implication being why did I, the fat ugly girl, think that this boy, of relative attractiveness, would ever want to go out with me? Seeing all my thin pretty friends in relationships shoved this knife in a little deeper, and yeah. I was depressed. I was sad, I would cry, and I would contemplate a world without me in it. I had a friend who called the Kids Help Line about me, and I just remember how mad I was about that because they called my house at 10 at night and my parents picked up. I remember ashamedly trying to cover up why they were calling, saying that my friends were playing a joke on me or something like that. I was ashamed that I was depressed, and I was even more depressed that I was ashamed of it. It was a vicious cycle of shame and depression.
Don't get me wrong, for the most part I covered it up well. I was still dancing, I was in band, I was in choir and drama and did all of that stuff. I went out with my friends, but I still would crawl inside of myself and cry on a consistent basis.
The worst of this emotional pit came when I was 17, and I had (finally) had a couple boyfriends. I don't really count the boyfriends when I was 15 because, let's face it, those relationships don't really do anything other than hold hands and talk on the phone (or MSN messenger and ICQ, as it were in my day). The first 'real' relationship I had I'm glad I got out of in a hurry. Yes, he was the first guy I kissed. Yes, he was the first guy I did other things with - but I stuck to my guns and did NOT give him my virginity. I knew that I would regret it, and he was really quite upset that I wouldn't just go freely. So that relationship ended. The 'rebound' relationship, as it were, was with someone who did not take my No to mean NO. I'm not going to come right out and say it, but I did not have a choice. Again, that relationship ended QUICKLY.
The next relationship was the doozy. My best friend and I used to go cruising around the main drag, and we'd talk with other people doing the same thing. One night we happened upon a car with two guys, both of which were funny and nice and we ended up hanging out with them. My friend and one of the guys hit it off, so instead of third and fourth wheeling it, the other guy in the car just took the keys to his friend's car and said let's go for a ride. So we left them and drove around the city for what seemed like hours. But it was GREAT. He was older than me (as were the other two guys, but that's neither here nor there), out of high school, funny, and just nice. He was really nice to me, which was a refreshing change of pace from the epic douchebags I had to go to school with every day. When we returned to his place, my friend and I got into her car, we exchanged hugs with the guys, and were on our way. We each started seeing the guys, and it was ... I don't know how to describe it. For the first couple weeks, we would hang out as a group. I think maybe that's just because we didn't know what to expect. Then the guy I was seeing and I would hang out on our own, and it was just so chill. There was no need to impress him because finally, FINALLY, someone cared more about what was going on with my personality than what was going on physically. The catalyst to this relationship happened when the guy my friend was seeing decided to pull an epic dick move and try to force her into a sexual relationship. Their relationship ended, but mine was still going. I was going to school full-time, working part-time, and seeing this guy, and essentially ignoring my friends. When my friend commented on this, and I tried to explain to her that I didn't have time to do all of it, it wasn't that she gave me a literal ultimatum but I felt like there was an implied one. And I chose her. She was my absolute best friend in the whole world, and who was I to shove that friendship aside for some guy. So I called the boyfriend and broke up with him, and I was devastated. Completely and unequivocally. And that was the night that I tried to kill myself.
I wish I could say that was the only time. It wasn't. But it was essentially the one and only time that I probably would have followed through, had I fallen deeper into the hole. Instead, I got about half-way through and cried myself to sleep instead. My mom came in the next morning to wake me up, asked what happened to my neck, and I broke down crying as I told her. I knew it wasn't something she had ever expected me to say, and she just stared at me shocked. I stayed home from school that day. I kind of wish that I had gone to talk with someone, professionally, at that point, but I don't think that either of us thought of that option. I ended up doing some permanent damage to my throat in that I opened up some sort of pathway of infection to my tonsils and I ended up getting sick, a LOT, and having to get the tonsils removed a couple years later. But that's beside the point. I didn't attempt suicide for the attention, or to make someone notice me. I attempted because I hurt and I didn't want to hurt anymore.
There are other boyfriends and other sob stories, but that one was by far the one that hits the hardest, even still. He was the only guy (until I met my now-husband, that is) who didn't ever comment on my appearance or physique, aside from lovely compliments.
When I was 18, and my self-esteem was horribly low, I somehow made the connection that if I got guys to like me in "that way", then that means that I'm doing something right. I deliberately tied my self-worth to my desirability. Of course, this always ended badly. It ended with me feeling horrible about myself for putting that part of myself out in the open. It left me wondering why I even bother at all. Most of all, I lost myself. I would be who I thought everyone wanted me to be, and then I would get sad if no one even wanted that. I'd witness my friends, who were in relationships, get hit on and get free drinks and be the centre of attention, and then single me would be on the wayside, just trying to make a friend. I was a disaster, to put it succinctly. I moved out a couple times, only to have to move back home a couple months later because I quit my job or got fired or I just spent all my money on booze instead of rent and utilities. It wasn't until I was 20 that my mom put her foot down and made me go see a counselor. On one hand, I'm glad that she did because I mostly got my shit together after that. On the other hand, this counselor was SO BAD that I feel bad that my dad's EFAP paid for it. Seriously. I moved out, for the final time, around the time that I started seeing this counselor. I was also finally happy about my relationship status. I didn't care if I had a boyfriend or not, I cared about how happy I was. I was working a low-level job at a restaurant, but it was fun and I had responsibilities. I was good at it, and I was training new people within the first couple months of being there, which spoke well to me in that I was needed. When it came to dating, the first dates I always dressed casually because I didn't want to be judged on my appearance. Sounds silly, but it's true. I'd wear my comfy jeans and a random t-shirt, wouldn't do my hair or makeup, just to see if the guy was worth it. I met a couple nice guys who I hung out with again, and I also met my husband. I could go into our story, but I'm not going to.
Fast forward to when my daughter was born, and holy god the hormones and emotions are all over the place. I remember one night, within the first couple weeks where she was alive, and I was standing in the shower bawling my eyes out because she was crying. My husband had to work late all that week - when I say late, I mean until 10 at night - and I was so gross and I needed a shower because I had a c-section and I HAD to keep that incision area clean. My daughter just wouldn't seem to settle down, and I knew deep down that I had to put her down and walk away or it might get ugly. So she's screaming and I'm sobbing and I had so many thoughts of 'Why did I do this?' and 'Does it ever get better?'. I didn't necessarily suffer from post-partum depression, but sweet christ can being a new mom be overwhelming. Over the months I developed this odd habit of rooting around my scalp for the random hairs that were super curly and a different texture (or colour - I've got random black hairs in my naturally blond head) and pulling them out. It was getting to the point where I'd be pulling out other hairs with them, or instead of them, and I knew that I needed to stop doing that. That it was a compulsion that could lead to worse things. I never told my husband about it, and in hindsight maybe I should have. Regardless, having a child brings everything to the surface. Hormones fuck with your emotions, and with your self-image. Instead of thinking "I just brought this beautiful baby into this world", I would think about how fat and gross I was. I lost a lot of myself in that year after she was born. I'm slowly starting to re-build it, but it is so fucking hard. It's hard to put it into words or to express it to other people, because they just don't get it. They don't understand why you're feeling blue because you ran out of your favourite soap. They can't comprehend why being fractionally late for something almost gives you a panic attack. It's like your hormones blank out for a bit, then come back full-force and you're just trying to keep up.
It's hard to be a woman in a society that thrives on the perceived notion of perfection.When you're plus sized like me, your shopping options are slim to none depending on where you live. I'm fortunate enough that there are, hmm, 3 stores in town that have clothes I can fit into enough to try on. I'm fortunate enough that I can order online clothes that might fit - thank goodness for Old Navy's free return shipping. But every day, every fucking day, I wish that I didn't have to go through all of these troubles. That I could just walk into a store, any store, and be able to try things on and/or buy them. Yes, I am fully aware that my physique is my own doing. I'm not blaming genetics - although to be fair I have some relatives who are in the same boat that I am - but I'm not entirely blaming myself. If our society weren't so fucking OBSESSED with self-image, there wouldn't be all of this bullshit. A store wouldn't charge an extra $20 for a shirt because it's got an X behind the number, it would just be a shirt that they make.
To close out this horribly long and drawn-out emotional post, I would like to say that I hope someday we can get past this obsession with perfection. That a woman, any woman, could look in the mirror without wondering what she can do to make herself perfect. Instead, she could see what she is and who she is and be intrinsically happy. But let's be honest, that's never going to happen. I'm a lot of talk and no action, and at some point I hope that it clicks in my brain that I can't just expect things to happen for me and that I need to do it for myself.
I need to be happy. I deserve to be happy. And so does everyone else.
Again, this didn't seem like THAT big of a deal. Until I realized that we wouldn't be able to stay in our bedrooms, that we would have to move everything upstairs, and that Olivia would basically be our clock as to when we go to bed.
