Archive for body image
The end of violence
Posted by: | CommentsTonight I made it to the gym for the first time in a week, and for the first time on a weeknight since I don’t know when. It helps that it’s now light outside until after 6. It also helps that the gym is halfway between Judi’s office and home. I haven’t been working out lately beyond the shiva nata and Nia. Lifting, doing cardio–anything hard-core–feels wrong.
It feels violent.
I have spent most of my life beating the shit out of myself over my body. I have used exercise as a way to punish myself for being imperfect. I have exercised to the point of vomiting. I have trained so hard–especially on climbs on my bike–that I had asthma attacks. I have pushed myself to the point of injury, all the time calling myself weak and lazy and fat and useless and a loser when I quit. (Quit, not ’stopped’.) I didn’t do it to be healthy, I did it because I was a perfectionist. For a long time, my body responded by dropping fat, getting muscley. I could run hard or bike hard or lift hard for several months and rid my body of evidence of months of sloth. In 1994 my thyroid went kaput, and my body became sluggish in response. The cruel words my ex-husband threw at me was nothing compared to what I did to myself.
What I do to myself.
I can tell story after story of how I lost weight, then regained it. I can write about starving myself, punishing myself by deprivation. I can speak of violence.
Now, it seems the harder I push my body, the harder my body pushes back. In 2007 Steve and I did P90x, a very intense workout, for 12 weeks. My body responded by getting very strong (I could do almost 100 pushups over an hour’s time) but also refusing to drop any body fat. In retrospect, it’s like it was an abused woman who had finally put out a restraining order against her tormentor.
I didn’t think I knew how to do it any differently. I mean, to be healthy, you go to the gym and lift weights violently, push yourself through advanced yoga (yes, even yoga can be violent on the inside) and walk the treadmill at extreme angles, right? Nia doesn’t count as exercise because it’s gentle, and the shiva nata, well, that’s not exercise at all.
When I got to the gym tonight, I decided to try a kick boxing class. I always loved kickboxing, especially visualizing a particularly frustrating person’s face in the range of my fists. In the late 1990s, I belonged to a gym that let us wrap our hands and punch dummies and hand pads. The physical contact was thrilling and such a release. It was taught by a diminutive, bad-ass Vietnamese woman who used the class to make us women feel powerful, or so I told myself. Often, I’d push myself to the point of exhaustion so I’d barely be able to drag myself to the car. I motivated myself to do every rep through name-calling.
Tonight, though, it was different.
The teacher introduced himself as Mike Sucks. I considered leaving at that, but I thought, what the heck, I’m good at modifying. But there was no modifying in this class. I kept up for the first 20 minutes, and when I tried to modify pushups on my knees, Mike Sucks “encouraged me” by calling me out in class. And then, he instructed us to run sprints. I don’t run because childbirth stretched the tendons that hold my bladder in place, and when I run I wet my pants. But Mike Sucks “encouraged me” some more and I ran. And I wet my pants. And then, I couldn’t breathe. It’s been a long time since I’ve had an exercise-induced asthma attack.
In the past, I would have pushed through it, perhaps taking a short break for water, or running to the bathroom to empty my bladder and catch my breath. But tonight as my lungs closed up, my higher self called to me softly, telling me it was OK to stop. That stopping didn’t mean I am lazy, or not as good as the women in the class. For the first time, I listened to my truth, not my monsters. I waived goodbye to Mike Sucks–who said he was taking it easy on the class due to all the newbies–and walked out with no regrets.
Instead of throwing shoe after shoe at myself because I couldn’t hack it, I chose peace. I am proud of myself. I still don’t have a metaphor for exercise. But perhaps, with this change in behavior I won’t need one.
Best of ‘09: Word or Phrase: Working out my shit #best09
Posted by: | Comments
Hayman Fire burnline, on a random roadtrip from Deckers to Manitou Springs.
In 2009, I turned 40. It seems remarkable to me, that number. It’s solid, the mile marker smack dab in the middle of my road trip called this life.
The first part of any road trip is filled with moments of my settling in, figuring out the best place for my sunflower seeds, selecting the best CDs or playlist, moving the cooler around until it’s firmly in the middle of the backseat. I usually find myself taking more pit stops in the first half of a long road trip. I look around more. I worry about getting there–wherever ‘there’ is–safely and on time.
The first half of a road trip feels like a dress rehearsal for the second half, the time where you really sink into the seat, elbow on the ledge of your open window, and sing over the wind at the top of your lungs even when the hot guy in the convertible pulls up beside you. Who cares what he thinks anyway. This is your trip, not his.
Someplace in the middle of my roadtrips, I usually stop, stretch my legs, get my bearings, and settle back in. I do a little reorganization, toss the empty soda cans in the garbage, work the knots out of my back. That’s exactly what this year has been like. I’ve been working my shit out, often in public here on this blog.
- I’ve been doing therapy weekly since May, using PSYCH-K techniques to unearth and resolve deep-held beliefs about myself and life. Some of the work as been successful, other parts not so much, but the fact that I’m dedicated to this journey to the point of spending 7% of my monthly income on it tells me this time around–because boy, have I tried this before–I’m ready to resolve and let go.
- I got married, throwing my lifetime fear of abandonment out the window as I said I DO to Steve. I am so committed that I even changed my name, something I didn’t do the first time around.
- I became committed to figuring out the best way to deal with my bipolar disorder–the best way for ME that is.
- I have become much better at quickly coming to understand how I feel and why I feel it. Where it used to take me days or even weeks to get it, now I can usually get to it in one conversation, or one blog.
- I decided that yes, I will write the novel. Nothing’s on paper yet, but the outline’s almost done in my head. And, because I am nuts, I also have started thinking about a second novel, to be written under my pen name, which will be an erotic romance. 2010 will be the year I actually write these books, now that the process doesn’t seem insurmountable. I still have some confidence issues to work out, but those will come by starting the damn things.
- I started taking pictures again. I love taking photos, and while I want to get better, I’m willing to ask questions and look dumb and have a lot of failures along the way. I’m hoping that someday I can make a buck or two on my work, either by taking portraits or selling calendars (ha!). But for now, I love that I have a hobby I can play in minus the need to be the World’s Greatest.
- I have written more this year than ever before, thanks to this blog. Yes, yes, sometimes I’m funny (by accident) and other times I’m downright depressing, and the Days of Grace project has become tedious for me, and maybe even for the 50 people or so who read this every day. However, I have been writing. And not writing was part of the shit I wanted to work out this year.
- I stopped trying to lose weight. Since I’ve been dieting in one way or another for most of my life, deciding that if my body wants to be a size 12, so be it, took more weight off me than South Beach or Atkins or fasting ever did. Figuratively, of course, because I’m still a size 12. However, this morning, when I looked at my naked body in the mirrors, I was fine with what I saw. This time last year, I looked pretty much the same, and I hated what I saw.
- I started to heal my relationship with my sister, which has been estranged for the most part since she was born.
- I have become a better, more loving mother to my daughter.
- I’ve mastered the double spin in salsa dancing.
- I’ve learned to better speak my mind even when it’s uncomfortable to do so.
- I’m still a slob, although I have had moments of neatness.
If you follow numerology at all, you understand that life comes in cycles. Numerologists say that those cycles are 9 years long. For me, 2009 was a 1 year–a year of rebirth, and of continuing to let go of what I started to let go of in year 9. I’m halfway through it, and I can feel the momentum for my next new adventure building inside and outside of me. I will continue to work on my depression, my perfectionism, my body image and identifying goals and values so that I can launch myself into whatever comes my way with a new vision of who I am and where I’m going on the second half this roadtrip called my life.
Blogger Extraordinaire Gwen Bell has issued a blogging challenge for each day of December–a “Best of” for 2009. I’m joining in as I have time and as the topics interest me.
Tuesday Randomness
Posted by: | Comments
It’s that time for Random Tuesday Thoughts, brought to you by the Un-Mom. Want to play? Click that lovely image, add your name to the list and steal the code for your own site.
One.
For the past two days, Lauren has been riding in the front seat of my car. The back has teemed with items we finally donated to ARC on the way to work this morning. Among the items, the set of dishes I bought five years ago, now chipped beyond tolerance, and Lauren’s first bike. She is now tall enough to ride in the front seat (although yes, I know the back seat is safer, and yes, the seat was shoved all the way back to avoid the airbag should it deploy). Which means she is also too tall for a child’s bike. We both got misty-eyed as we left the pretty blue Schwinn with white basket with the grimy ARC guy. “Goodbye pretty bike! I loved you!” she called as we drove away.
Two and a half.
I’ve really liked having Lauren in the front seat. A lot. Almost enough to displace my feeling of guilt that she’s in the front seat.
Two and three quarters.
August for me means giving things away. I’ve been through most of the house now, letting go of things I no longer use or like. On Friday, I’ll tackle my office, which will feel good. I know there are files I haven’t touched in two years. Buh-bye. Oh, and we’re trying recycling again, even though it means I have to schlep our bins to Laurel’s every-other Monday since no one will pick up at my house.
Three.
I got on the scale this morning fully expecting to see the needle in the 176-177 range. Alas. Or, should I say, FUCK. Because the needle pointed to the 182-183 range. I have now gained and lost and regained the same four pounds twice over the past 12 weeks. I just. Don’t. Get it.
Four.
I signed up for mint.com this weekend. So far, I really like it. I no longer need to use Quicken–not that I regularly updated my Quicken anyway. I love logging in and seeing my whole financial picture right before my very eyes. Except for the home value thing. Because right below my mortgage amount is the alleged value of my townhouse, and the alleged value? $40k less than the mortgage balance.
Five.
I hadn’t planned to stay in this house for five to 10 more years. However, it could take that long for me to recover any value, and given that there are five listings in my complex, three of which are listed near $110k, I think I’m screwed. Also, all of the listings are better than my current place, with updated kitchens, finished basements and hardwood floors. I would need to invest about $20k, minimum, to catch up.
As far as I can tell, I don’t qualify for any loan modification program. I’m really, really pissed off, because if I hadn’t refi’d in April 2007, I would have a good chance of qualifying for said programs, and likely reducing the total loan amount. Which, of course, would bring the monthly payment down to something that could be covered by rent. And then, we’d move into a real house, with three real bedrooms. And a two-car garage. I just don’t see any end to this situation.
I knew it was an impulsive move to buy this place back in 2004. It’s been a good home, but I’m ready to move on. Mr. Economy is saying no, and I hate to be told no to anything.
Six.
I’ve fallen in love with a local store called Savory Spice Shop. I can buy fresh spices and spice blends in these little 1-ounce baggies so the product stays nice and fresh. Their Mt. Eulodus Greek Seasoning is to die for, especially in a chicken marinade with fresh lemon juice and olive oil. And their garam masala. And their Mexican mole, which I sprinkled on some popcorn the other day. Oh, and their freeze dried shallots and chives! I can’t forget to mention those! I can spend an hour in their little store because it smells so delicious. Yum. You can check them out online if you don’t live in Denver, or if you do, go visit down on 15th and Platte or in Lowry.
The first 10 pounds
Posted by: | CommentsI bought my wedding dress last summer. Since then, I’ve put on about 7 pounds and while the dress fits, it’s uncomfortable. Ultimately, I’d like to shed the 20 pounds I’ve put on in the past 2 years (thanks to the Fucking Mirena), but given my past history with difficulties dropping weight easily, I will be happy to lose 10 so I can comfortably wear my beautiful gown.
Last week, I started to purge refined foods from my diet. Gone are sandwiches with bread (even whole wheat) and processed lunch meats. In are salads filled with veggies and a little protein. Sugar has been the hardest to kick. I caved a couple of times last week, eating a Three Musketeers one day, a sleeve of Sweettarts the other. I’ve allowed myself a little chocolate–one square of a Newman’s 70% cocoa dark chocolate bar–every day. I haven’t missed gluten and wheat much at all. I do miss cheese. Ah, creamy, luscious, dreamy cheese.
I’ve also been diligent about going to the gym. I even got there yesterday morning before work to lift upper body and do an interval elliptical workout.
In the past, I’ve gotten incredibly frustrated because while most people can start losing weight right away on a new program, I usually don’t. My body loves set points: at 187, 183, 178, 171, 169, 165, 162. I know this because in 2003 I did Atkins, starting at 188 lbs. I lost a pound the first week, then the needle didn’t move on the scale for 6 more weeks. And anyone who’s done Atkins knows that induction sucks ass, so to see no results is awful.
Last year, I needed to drop about 7 pounds before I went to Vegas with friends, so I hired a trainer and nutritionist. I started at 179, and once again, I got stuck at 178 for almost 2 months. My consultants were baffled. They tried shaking up the workout–more weights, less weights, no weights, no carbs, some carbs, all carbs. What worked best was some carbs and some weights. Turns out I put on muscle like a fiend. I can easily increase my bicep curls from 10 reps of 10 lbs to 15 reps of 25 lbs in about 3 weeks. So if I lift too much, I don’t lose weight at all. I did get down to 171 before Vegas (and into my size 10s). However, I tend to only lose at the rate of about 0.5 lb a week.
Now I have 12 weeks to drop 7 pounds. I weigh myself on Tuesdays, and last week, I was at 184. This morning, I’m at 182. I weighed myself three times, same scale. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wonder if the difference has something to do with all the vitamins I’m taking, or the fact that I don’t have an alien device sitting in my uterus spewing out nasty synthetic hormones. All I can say is it’s been a long time since I lost 2 pounds in a week. And skipped a set point. And it feels great!
Body wars
Posted by: | CommentsPay attention to how the American culture has the majority of its female inhabitants so wrapped up in how we look physically that we’re too distracted to use our powerful minds and imaginations to their fullest.
Listen around for just a day, and note how many times you hear another woman say something about:
- Avoiding a certain food because she is watching her weight
- She’ll indulge “just this once” in a treat, implying a great deal of guilt
- Another woman’s looks or body in an appraising way
- Working out, not working out, needing to work out but not having time or energy, all dredged in a stew of guilt
- Dieting, doing a cleanse or something else “faddish” to lose weight
- Criticizing a part of her body
Then, make note of how many times in a day you think about or talk about these same things.
It’s a lot, huh? Hours even.
Everywhere we turn, we’re bombarded with the idea that we are too fat, imperfect, wrong the way we are.
We’ve all read the headlines: Being at a healthy weight–under 30% body fat by some measures–is critical to a woman’s health. Extra body fat means extra estrogen, which means much higher ovarian and breast cancer risk. Extra weight around the middle corresponds to high blood pressure, diabetes and poor heart and circulatory health. Too much body fat can also correlate to low self esteem, depression and anxiety.
I’m all for being healthy, for having a happier, longer life. But that’s not the main message.
The main message we women now are bombarded with every day of our American lives is that not being ripped and having more than 15% body fat means you are:
- bad
- lazy
- undisciplined
- unhealthy
- ugly
- not sexy or desirable
- worthless, or at least not as valuable
Think I’m wrong? Tell me what you said to yourself the last time you stood in front of a mirror naked and scrutinized your body–like, this morning. If at least one of those words in the bullets didn’t cross your mind or your lips, congratulations. I want to be like you.
I feel that most women are at war with their bodies. I know I am. We hate the fact that we can’t live up to the airbrushed ideal, that our post-childbirth stomachs aren’t flat, that our asses aren’t round and high, that our boobs droop the longer gravity’s been at them.
We attack our bodies with plastic surgery, lasers, fad diets, weird cleanses (hot water, cayenne and honey, anyone?).
We attack our self worth with our words and thoughts.
Why do we do this? Why can’t we just accept our bodies as they are?
I have several friends who are in that 15% body fat, totally ripped class of women. Once, my friend N pinched a half-inch of skin and said she was too fat. She is 5-10 and weighs maybe 125 lbs. Another friend obsessively does Pilates and runs. Yes she has a 6-pack, but to what end? She still looks in the mirror in the morning and sees only her flaws.
It’s ridiculous. Body hatred should be an official mental health disease. Pfizer should be working on a drug to quell the symptoms–they’d make a windfall!
I know that picking on myself doesn’t serve me. It doesn’t serve my 8-year-old daughter. It takes energy away from things that do serve me. But I don’t know how to leave the battlefield.
