A Moment of Brokenness

I mentioned at one point some old pictures that my mom had brought when she'd culled her photo collection. I said she could throw them away, but she didn't. She brought them. I thumbed through them briefly and set them on a shelf. I should throw them away. I don't have anything to do with them, and most are repeats.

But I feel like that stack of pictures is a living, breathing animal that threatens me if I get too close to it. I don't want to pick it up to throw it away. I don't want to do anything with it. I hate it.

And I think that I just realized why.

I don't want James to see those pictures. I don't want him to see all of the years condensed like that: when I was carrying so much weight after having Daphne and not being able to breast-feed, but still being in the "pregnancy appetite" mode. But mostly, I don't want him to see the pictures of me when I was much trimmer. I'm scared to death that he'll look at those pictures and think, if only for a moment, "Wow. She looked great." And he'll wish he'd known me then. Or maybe he'll wish I still looked like that. So I place myself of today in competition with a me of the past.

The worst part is that, in the pictures where I look so amazing, I was dying inside. In my early/mid-20s, I had a full-blown eating disorder. I weighed less than I had since grade school, and because the scale at GNC told me that I was still 8 pounds overweight, I felt like a monster.

In my mid-30s, I lost weight more "healthily," consumption-wise; meaning that I ate food that was balanced and I exercised regularly but not as desperately as I did in my 20s. But I was still sick. I thought about food and how to ration it and how to prepare it and what I could have next every second of every day. I knew that if I didn't maintain a certain appearance, I would lose what affection I had from the person whose opinion mattered the most.

Still, when I look at the exterior of that young woman, I'm very tempted to wish that I could be the 40-year-old me on the inside and look like the "extreme weight loss" version of me. I hate myself for that impulse, and it breaks my heart to think that my husband would have it, as well.

I'm sharing because, if you're someone who struggles with this kind of body image issue, I want you to know that you're not alone. I do not want anyone to comment about how, if I would do a) or b) then I could lose weight. I don't want to lose weight. I am fit. I ride my bike or walk all of the time. My body does whatever I want it to do, subject to some limitations from my back injury. I am investing exactly as much time and effort into physical fitness as I want, and I am happy with myself... I am confident that my husband is pretty happy with me, also.

It's just that old hurts, habits, and hang-ups die hard. And I'm sometimes pretty sad for that girl who looks fabulous but was clawing at something solid to hold to.

The other night, my daughter texted me, having found a scale at her dad's and weighed herself. She wanted to know how much I weighed. I know she wanted to compare it to her own weight. Thing is, unless I go to the doctor's office, I don't know how much I weigh. I'm so grieved by the fact that she's being tempted to define herself by those numbers.

When I was younger, I worked with a bunch of women who were in their late 50s, and they were always trying a new eating plan or exercise, comparing notes, talking about weight loss, etc. And they always seemed to be in the exact same place. I didn't want to live my life like that, and I think of it often. I want more for my kid than this. I want more for her than the me of junior high, when I'd stand in front of my parents' mirror sideways, stick my belly out as far as it would go, and say out loud, "I hate you. You're so ugly. You're so fat."

I can tell her over and over that who she is is so much more than having a flat front panel on your jeans, whether or not your breasts are larger than your waist. I can assure her that her identity and worth come from other places, from the God who created her and loved her enough to pursue her, from who she is as a person, and all of that... But what is it about "us" that allows a size to make us forget who we are and see ourselves as these monstrous caricatures?

What is it about me that makes me jealous of my husband gazing on my younger self and perhaps desiring her more than he desires me?

What is wrong with us?