Time Machine

In looking for something else, I found an essay I'd written back in the fall of 2012, months after James and I had started dating and months before we got married. It still holds true today, so I'm going to post it:

Sometimes I Feel Like I Don’t Have a Partner
November 15, 2012

“I hope you find whatever it is that you’re looking for.”

This is one of the last things that my ex-husband told me before I moved to Austin. He seemed genuinely baffled, as though I’d always been looking for something that he couldn’t give me, and maybe in a way this is true. But I’ve always known what I wanted, and I thought that I was pretty clear in communicating this to him… over and over and over for years and years. But it was apparently still a mystery to him.

This week, I went on vacation with D and James. When we got to the condo, James helped carry everything up, and when he saw that I was unpacking in my room, he went into his room to unpack. He told me, “If it were just me, I’d leave everything laying around.”

He wanted to help when I was cooking our meals. He wanted to go when D and I went to the playground to hang out. He was disappointed this morning when he learned that I’d taken the cooler down instead of letting him do it.

When we got to the trailer, he helped get everything in and helped put things away, get the laundry started, and made sure that I didn’t need anything else before he sat down to work on the computer.

I get the mess that is missed e-mail, and in our case NaNoWriMo catch-ups, and work that is now backlogged and all of that… so I never resent the need to get back to real life when vacation is over. But I didn’t realize fully how much I had missed and how nice it was to have someone to help me reacclimatize so that I could do the same.

I have, for my whole life, wanted a partner. I have wanted someone who was different enough from me that we’d have interesting conversations and be able to enjoy each other’s viewpoints, but who was willing to work with me to be a team. Andy tried to argue with me when we saw things differently. Ken was the same way. It wasn’t enough that I had an opinion or a thought that perhaps I’d very carefully considered before coming to the conclusion I had reached. I was wrong and needed to be taught how to think correctly. When I didn’t agree, there was a breakdown in community. We could never agree to disagree and then get on with life.

Ken in particular took my differences of opinion as disunity. I did not understand that. I wasn’t threatened or offended by his differences.

I was lonely, though. I wrote him letter upon letter about wanting company, about wanting someone who seemed to enjoy being around me, who liked spending time with me and would be “there” when he was there. 

This might not be something he was able to provide. It made for a lonely existence.

When Ken was with me, and later with D and me, he could be in the moment for a while, but then he would retreat into whatever reality he preferred and we were left to our own devices. This is fine now, when I expect it to be just D and me, but it was horribly sad when my expectation was that we were supposed to be in it together.

So often, it was him versus me. I never understood this. I never got why he would be so frustrated when I was happy or having a good time. This is one thing I especially appreciate about James. If I got the opportunity to spend a week in Europe with Rockapella or Weird Al or a group of girlfriends, James would be at the airport seeing me off with a big smile on his face and yelling behind me things like, “Take lots of pictures!” “Bring me back some good cheese!” “I’ll miss you!” Then he’d get on with his life that week, miss me a lot, and be very happy to see me when I returned.

What I just described sounds normal, as though of course this is what would happen. When you live with someone who isn’t your partner, though, there is a shift in reality, so that it is just slightly “off.” First of all, Ken never would have let me go to Europe without him because he would be afraid that I would do something “stupid.” If I were to go anyway, he’d sit at home all week, checking Facebook updates and pictures, and getting more and more angry with me. He might send an email message telling me to enjoy my trip because I was never going on a trip again.

When I got home, he’d have let the house get horribly messy, and he wouldn’t help me bring anything in from the car, and he would likely ignore me for a week.

This was my reality. I never went to Europe without Ken, but I was punished for being happy. I was made to feel guilty when I enjoyed life outside of my house. I was viewed with suspicion and resentment. And all that I wanted was a partner.

This is why, I believe, I fell into such deep “love” with my dearest friend after my marriage was over. My friend said that he was attracted to me, and the deep respect for and work ethic he had regarding marriage were extremely attractive to me. I thought that if the two of us got together, we could have an incredible partnership. Only it was going to cost him too much, so he backed out. The problem was that I had already fallen hard and fast for the idea of having a functional family, and all of the meals and reunions and fun outings and even the stress that goes with that.

I got caught in a repeating loop of need and wants and trying to talk someone unwilling to partner with me into doing so against his better judgment.

This time, though, things are different. I can feel it. James is an admitted introvert, and being “with people” is a challenge for him. After spending four full days in all-out family vacation mode, though, he said he didn’t feel like climbing the walls. That’s incredible. And he was in the moment the whole time, except for zoning out at dinner trying to figure out a plot device he’d used.

The point is that I never felt lonely. James wrote over 17,000 words during the days that we were on vacation, and we still spent more time together and had more conversation and hung out and played games and were genuinely together in a way that I have never experienced before. I feel like I’m heading toward something immense. And I am grateful.

All I have wanted my entire life is to have a partner, to have someone with me to share things and to show me things and to be with me. For the first time in years, I believe that this dream has a possibility of coming true.

For the first time in my life, I can watch a romantic movie and not be pensive; I can actually be happy for the lovers, and imagine how they feel. That might sound sappy and stupid, but that has never been an experience that I have had. I’ve never felt secure in any relationship that I have ever had, even the better of them.

I have always been afraid that I was one screw-up or prettier girl from losing. And I’m not scared anymore.

So I suppose that the most amazing thing about James is that I trust him. I trust him with my heart. I have given it to him completely, and I am not worried that he will be careless with it or unequal to the task.

James is a strong man, with very different experiences and views than mine. But he will make it right if he thinks I’ve misunderstood him. He will call me and say, “We’re so not breaking up over this.” He is willing to work. He has worked. He has proven himself truer in the most stressful of situations, and we continue to get stronger as a team. I love him. He loves me. We have acknowledged that neither of us is perfect, but that we are both perfect for each other.

It’s taken me half of my life, but I have a partner. Happy mid-life to me.

What is the opposite of Body Dysmorphia?

I remember seeing a picture of what body dysmorphia is a long time ago. Basically, there are multiple line drawings of a person, the same person, from extremely trim to very portly. An eating disorder care provider shows the picture to a patient and asks them to point to the one that looks the most like them. For someone who has body dysmorphia, they will inevitably select a representation that is three or so sizes larger than they actually are. That is how they see themselves, even in the mirror, even when reality is something else entirely.

I have had a disordered relationship with eating and exercise, but sometimes I think I have the opposite of "dysmorphia." When I was growing up, I never "felt fat" (which isn't a real thing, but you get what I mean) before I heard that I was fat from other people. 

Taking a bath with my cousins: "You're as fat as my mom."

Sitting behind a classmate on a van for a field trip in junior high and accidentally hitting the back of his head as I moved some stuff around, then apologizing only to be told: "You're so fat."

Bagging groceries at 16 years old: "Oh, are you expecting?! I worked at a grocery store when I was pregnant with my first."

And it got to me. I remember standing in front of my parents' bathroom mirror (because it was bigger than mine,) and puffing out my stomach, looking at my reflection and saying, "I hate you. You're so gross." 

But the thing is... I didn't hate myself. I thought I was really cool, funny, and smart. It really never occurred to me until it happened (over and over) that someone might not be interested in me because of how my body looked.

And yet: "She's too much woman for me." "You have to pull it together; you're about 50 pounds overweight." "We can be friends, but I'm just not physically attracted to you."

This worked, and by "worked," I mean that it got me to lose weight multiple times in my life. But I still always always thought, "If this person would get to know me, I think I could win them over because of how I am. I'm pretty awesome!" 

(Incidentally, the same person who told me he wasn't physically attracted to me came around months later, apologized for saying that -- I'd given him a talking to about how rude it was -- and said he actually DID find me attractive... but fortunately, I was old enough to have some self-respect and wasn't interested in him.)

Furthermore, when I look in the mirror, I like what I see. I think I look great most of the time. Sometimes, I'll see a picture that makes me go, "Yeesh," which I think is a normal human experience. But I think I'm cute. I identify as "fat" (specifically "small fat" since I can buy clothes in non-"extended" sizing, but only barely and not certain brands) because I think my BMI is in the "overweight" category (though I haven't weighed in more than a decade) and clothing sizes tell me I'm big... but I don't, again, this isn't a real thing, "feel fat." 

This is probably because I'm extremely fortunate genetically. My parents both have long-lived parents and grandparents, and we just hit the lottery that way. Diabetes doesn't run on either side. Heart issues are sprinkled around, but neither of my parents has heart disease. I haven't developed arthritis yes, and I didn't do the kind of youth sports that would come back to haunt me as an adult. I have been lucky enough to mostly be able to afford the healthcare I need to stave off problems (though I *do* need a neck ultrasound and a DEXA scan, and have for 2 years... I'm just glad we still had insurance to get my thyroid and parathyroid removed before the coverage ran out!). 

So the fact that I can get up and go and do whatever I want to do, with my body being pretty darn reliable, means I don't have complaints that make doctors suggest that losing weight might help. None of my doctors since I've been an adult has suggested weight loss or dietary changes, regardless of my weight at the time of care.

All of this means that it just surprises the crap out of me when people ask if I'm pregnant (the last time this happened when I wasn't actually pregnant was about 15 years ago; now I probably look too old for that to be a possibility). Or that I'm too shocked to respond when a family member found out how much Mal weighed at birth and said, "What?! You mean I carried a heavier baby than YOU did?!" (She was 5 days postpartum, so I gave her some grace but... holy crap, it's okay to think things and not say them out loud.)

I also want to state that I think fat people ARE cute. I know that fat people are healthy and active and, in fact, a lot more active than I am (fat marathoners, I see you... from the stands and support you but that couldn't be me). I also know that a lot of people can't achieve whatever "healthy" means because of disability or access to medical care or chronic health issues. And those things can happen to anyone regardless of size.

But my point is that there is a disconnect somewhere that I am so absolutely shocked and appalled when someone looks at my body and then makes a comment that does not align with my own experience of myself, and it's jarring. 

Anyway, thanks for coming to my Dear Diary session. Have a great weekend!

An Open Letter

Hey, you. 

You randomly popped up in a dream last night (specifically, I was picking you up from jail after you'd completed your sentence??)... well, the you from more than 15 years ago. Would I recognize you now? Would you recognize me?

I can't even begin to detail how much I've changed in the years since I moved to Austin. 

When I first got here, everything was mostly the same. I tried to build a life that was familiar, like the lives we had in north Texas. But pretty quickly, that manner of living started to crumble and without knowing it, I was building a totally different way of life.

Superficially... I have wavy hair now. Can you believe it? All of that time and effort I spent trying to curl my hair. I know you liked it better straight; I guess we always want what we can't have. Anyway, my morning routine was never cumbersome, but it's so much faster now: spray hair to reset waves. Get out. It's pretty great.

Also, I'm not trying to be skinny anymore. You'd probably "still love [me] in spite of it," but, with all due respect, eff that noise, friend-o. I'm happy with myself, and my body has never been healthier. I've seen the future and know what I need to do to maintain maximum ambulation for as long as I can, as far as it is in my power to maintain. I move more and with more joy than I ever have before. And I also unapologetically enjoy the food I've always loved. No shame. No one watching me or my body change. It's amazing.

I have more tattoos (with another in the planning stages), and got my nose pierced a couple of years ago. I believe you would have hated this. It's probably good that things ended up the way that they did.

In fact, there are bigger things that make me grateful that we're not still in each other's lives. Much bigger.

You'd likely hate me now. I don't think the same way or believe the same things that I did back then. You'd think I had back-slidden or been influenced by something dark... but, man, when I read my blogs from 15-24 years ago, I do not like that person. I was a closed-off, judgy, occasionally humorous know-it-all.

I no longer vote the way I voted before. I remember when I first moved, and a mutual friend called me a loyalist to a particular political party as an insult. It worked. I was upset that she would say that. Now? Guilty as charged. What changed? A lot. So much.

You know what has pushed me to change the absolute most? My kids. They have been a blessing, and they have been challenging... and even that has ultimately made me a better person, and hopefully a better parent. If they ask me a question today, I probably have an opinion, but I don't feel like I have to give a pat answer with absolute certainty that it is and I am right. 

I will err every day on the side of throwing the doors wide open and embracing people, and life, and happiness. I wanted this before, but was so limited by unnecessarily strict boundaries that someone else convinced me needed to be in place.

I made so many mistakes, and I hurt so many people. Heck, I've even done that in the past 15 years, despite my best efforts not to. But at least when I do so now, it's because I'm messed up and not because I think I know the only right way and insist that other people do certain things because of what I believe.

All that time I spent trying everything I could think of to make us work, and you absolutely refused to budge. It was that realization -- that you cared more about your own self-preservation than you did trusting me enough to step out on a ledge and try to fly -- that made me leave. And now I see that you were correct. We were NOT right for each other. We would not have worked. We would have gotten to a point just a few years later where things would have come up that would have caused us to implode, anyway. 

So I guess I'm saying thank you for making me so miserable that I couldn't stay in the same place for another day. Thank you for pushing me away so hard that I ended up never seeing you again for the rest of my life. It was a protection to me, and to my kids (one for obvious reasons as he wouldn't exist). 

And try not to get arrested, because I can't come pick you up.

Laura

I always used to say...

 ... Back when I was married to someone else, that if my ex-husband ever died, I would get fat, and I'd get an RV. Over time, I added that I'd also get another tattoo. 

Well, apparently, it didn't take a death. It only took a decoupling. 

The first thing I did was to get an RV. And I LOVED it!

Me loving my RV so hard.
(Thanks, Gabrielle, for the photoshoot...
14 years ago!)

As you can tell by that older photo above, I'm also bigger than I was back in that day. It took a long time for me to get comfortable with my body, but it has helped to have a partner who is very comfortable with it. I mean, if I'd remained single, I probably would have been fine with it, as well... it's just that being married to someone who views your body with suspicion and expects it to disappoint if you're not constantly managing it makes just living a normal life pretty impossible. In the words of Madeye Moody, "Constant vigilance" and all that. It's exhausting. (Also: JK Rowling, p-tooey.)

Then, not only did I get another tattoo; I've gotten three more, including 2 since I turned 50! And I got my nose pierced!

To my complementarian/"servant leader head of the family" ladies, I will say: Bodily autonomy is incredible, and you should really try it.

I've been thinking about this a lot as we consider our financial future in the days of massive layoffs across the country, and the seemingly decreasing likelihood of James finding a "career-level" job in tech (which he's honestly fine with; but it seems like the Leander Independent School District doesn't want a tech bro as a night janitor, either).

We're looking at selling the house and moving out of the country. We're looking at selling the house, getting an RV, and moving across the Rural Market road. Or out of Texas, as James thinks if we're going to get rid of the house, we should GO.

Mal loves the idea of living in an RV. James is okay with it, too. In other words, I don't have to wait for him to die before considering things I'd enjoy... 

... Although, if James weren't around, I might consider cutting my hair a lot shorter. He has said that it's my hair and I can do whatever I want with it, of course; but I also know he likes longer hair (on everyone, not just me) so I'm keeping it. For now. 

Bits and Pieces

Hello, fellow Americans (and any other nationalities, honestly... all are welcome)!

Yesterday was Mother's Day in the US, and my local family came out to my house to visit. We had a nice afternoon hanging out, and I didn't have to do anything because James and Mal picked out snacks, my Dad brought food and plates, and it was just a fun time all around.

Today, I had an early appointment at a radiology office, not realizing that I was getting some nuclear imaging and a CAT scan. Woo hoo. Fun times. Before going into the imaging chamber, I got an IV of radioactive material! About two short hours and I was done. What a psychic workout, though.

First, the radiologist was trying to keep my elbows in place (the camera automatically keeps 1 inch between itself and a body, and she didn't want me moving my arms and making the camera back off). It was kind of like swaddling, and it was comfy enough... until she started lowering the imaging plate to within 2 inches of my nose and my claustrophobia kicked in. I pulled off the sheet and promised that I would keep my elbows tucked under my own power. She offered to try something different and I told her that if I felt restrained, there was no way I could do it. So we kept my arms free and everything was relatively fine after that.

I had 3 different 5-minute scans, during which I could not move. I was kind of restless after those, but THEN it was time for a 25-minute scan! That one did a number on me, as I tried to relax and maybe even nap since I'd gotten less sleep than usual the night before. But my body kept bringing me back into the moment by suddenly detecting an itch in my right ear canal. Then making me hyper aware that the muscles in my leg were clinched and I needed to relax. Then noticing that my pinkies were falling asleep from my crossing my fingers, which was how I was keeping my elbows from flopping around, so I couldn't really move them but I also couldn't forget about how much I wanted to move. However, when the machine beeped that it was over, I'd thought we were only at the halfway point. 

After the long scan, I had to go into a CAT scan machine still without moving because it had to line up with the previous images. The tech had to "stitch" the pictures, and I was trying not to say anything until there was a natural break, but by then I REALLY needed another visit to the restroom (one of the symptoms of the hypercalcemia caused by hyperparathyroidism is that my kidneys are always trying to jettison calcium, thus pulling moisture from my body and causing me to need to evacuate a minimum of hourly). Fortunately, she was able to let me go before we did the 3 final 5-minute scans.

Shortly after I got home, James had deja vu from last spring, when Indeed announced that it was laying off 8% of its work force. This time, James didn't keep his job, and he said he's mostly numb about it, but I think it will end up being a good thing. Morale has tanked since last year's down-sizing (the first mass layoffs Indeed had ever done), and he hasn't been happy for a while. 

Classes and extra-curriculars are shutting down for the summer. Mal has been out of Wednesday classes for two weeks. This Wednesday, we're going to to to the splash pad where we had his birthday party. I'm probably going to plan an activity every Wednesday that I can, just to avoid general malaise (although I love being home). Since Mal is enjoying public transit so much (we took the bus to Urban Air last week and had a great time), I'll see what I can find that is nearby convenient stops (we had to walk almost a mile between the stop and UA, but it was fun).

Thursday is Mal's last homeschool open gym until fall. And our Tuesday group is always lighter in the summer, with people traveling and dealing with summer custody arrangements.

But Mal's looking forward to YMCA movie-making camp in about a month! It'll be his first sleep-away camp, and I hope it's as magical as Camp Coral (a SpongeBob series), which is why I think he was interested in camp in the first place.

This last thing I'm going to tell you about... well, if you're squeamish or just don't like TMI, then stop reading and we'll see you next post. 

If you're still here, allow me to say: I'M TOO OLD FOR THIS! And by "this," I mean continuing my fertility. I, too, had deja vu today. We were in Montreal exactly a year ago (sigh) and the last full day we were in town, I took Mal to an indoor playground. We spent a LOT of time on public transit to get there. On the bus ride, I felt a kind of "swoosh" feeling that was weird. When we got to the playground, I went into the restroom and there was blood EVERYWHERE. I was wearing a menstrual cup (which I've used without leaks since 2010), AND period underwear. And still, my khaki slacks were absolutely drenched in blood.

I had a stain stick and pretty much used it up. It kind of diluted the visible blood, though it definitely looked like I'd peed myself. Oh well. I wasn't going to end the day early and travel an hour back to the hotel room just to change. I moved my stuff from a cloth seat to a leather chair and just dealt with it. It was fine; I didn't make a mess anywhere but on myself. Then Mal and I went to McD's before heading back several hours later.

(It's the next day).

Since then, I've had one overnight situation which hadn't happened since I stopped wearing pads in my early 20s. I determined to remember to change out IMMEDIATELY before bedtime from then on, and have done so.

But yesterday, as I used the restroom prior to my eternal scan situation, I realized I'd started my period. I'd gotten up in the dark so hadn't seen any clues at home. But by the time I made it to the radiology clinic, I suppose I'd been free-bleeding for about two hours. I didn't have on my period underwear (my periods are extremely irregular -- thanks, perimenopause! -- and I didn't get the usual two-day warning of hormone-induced stress this time. 

I had my cup with me as always, but had to do the whole procedure knowing that I'd bled straight through my jeans. Ehh. Got home, changed, was fine the rest of the day.

Then last night, I got the same feeling as on the bus a year ago. Got up and there was just blood EVERYWHERE. I don't understand what or how it is happening, but I'm over it. Cleaned up, went for a walk, could tell I was leaking. Had to change and clean up AGAIN when I got home.

Friends, I am almost 52 years old! This nonsense needs to stop. At least I will probably be at least mostly finished by next week. I don't want to have to do the pad/mesh underpants combo I discussed with the surgical nurse.

The Lucky One

Sometimes I think about what it must be like... just to walk away and have zero responsibility for a child you brought into the world.

All of the hard times and tears you've missed. All of the difficulties. You just live your life as if you never had a child. And maybe that hurts, but you're still protected. Protected from receiving the vitriol and anger. Protected from having to figure out what to try this time. Protected from hoping the next thing you try actually makes a difference.

You haven't invested thousands of dollars in care, in clothes, in food, in insurance, in medication. You haven't wrestled with how to love someone well who carries so much resentment toward you. You haven't had to watch your child struggle with needing and loving you when they so do not want to.

You live your life. You pursue what you will. You might have the occasional nagging thought of "what if..." but you never act on it. Not one time. You are your own world.

But I am the lucky one. I am the one who abides. All of the battles that child and I have fought, all of the words that have landed softly here and explosively there, the days of silence, the unexpected hugs... They're all mine.

You've missed so much, and I don't think you have the capability to care. I feel sorry for you.

A Bump in the Road

James and I have been "together" for more than ten years now.

Waiting for the bats to come out, September 2012

When we first started dating, and for a couple of years after we got married, we had a lot of differences and issues that we had to work through in order to have a functional relationship. We always liked each other, and we always loved each other, but that didn't mean it was easy. We just wanted it to work enough that we were willing to work.

After that, though, we just had a rhythm. Yes, we had minor disagreements and misunderstandings. But those were just blips in what was otherwise a pretty protracted honeymoon period.

This summer, everything changed. Like a complete shifting of the ground beneath our feet. We still love each other. We still like each other. We still want it to work, so we're putting in the work. But, dang, it is hard. It's been hard for months. It's going to continue to be hard for months.

I hurt James, and knowing that I've done anything other than bring him joy and happiness is absolutely gut-wrenching. His struggle to love me even while being extremely angry is both admirable and hard to watch. At the same time, I'm hurting and mad because I feel like what I did was the only thing I *could* do, and there doesn't seem to be any room for me to be cared for in my own hurt because I'm not grieving and James is. And I love him, and I know it's just a season so I'm not building up any resentments... but what I'm telling you is that it's rough, and sitting in discomfort isn't my strong suit.

Where this becomes different from any other major life shake-up I've had before is this: James and I have an otherwise healthy relationship. I've had huge overhauls in my reality before, but it was typically after months or years of toxicity and estrangement. When something devastating happened, it was easy enough to "paper over" is because there wasn't much to fix and I had turned off caring long before that as a means of protecting myself.

Fighting to love someone and stay present when they're also the source of your pain is a huge undertaking. We both know our family is worth it. It continues to be a daily battle.

Here's what I know, on my side: I love James with all of my heart. I want to see our kids up and out of the house together. I want to empty nest with him. I want to go on long, aimless road trips together and notice silly out-of-the-way things that make us smile. I want us to be able to go out to a restaurant in the middle of the day and not have to worry about getting back to work or finishing up because our kid is getting bored. I want a future where we look back on this time and can see that we're somehow better and stronger for it. This is what keeps me getting out of bed and trying again every morning.

At Mal's friend's birthday party, August 2022

Get Out

Although I have screwed up on the job plenty, I have never been fired.

Even when I was going through a very messy breakdown of my marriage, divorce, and the aftermath of that, the community theater let me do all 4 of the shows I auditioned for and got parts in.

Over the years, I have acted harmfully in many ways, but my family of origin never once said, "We are done with you. You need to move on."

I was young and stupid during the years I volunteered for Greyhound Pets of America, but they appreciated me and let me do whatever I was willing and able to do.

My best Vegas friend, Adrienne, and my sister, Sarah, have both walked with me through a bunch of hot mess express action, lending nothing but support in the moment, even if they admitted later, "I could not believe you were doing that."

But you know what? I've been "invited" to leave two Christian churches.

The first, when I was going through my divorce. The invitation to leave was framed as the fact that coming to church seemed to be traumatic for me. It was true that I broke down most church services; music has the ability to open up places in your heart that you've tried to lock shut. I was going through a lot. It was presented to me as a mercy, but I know why they wanted me gone because they'd told me as much: They saw my struggle with the church leaders through my divorce as "divisive." They monitored my social media and blog to make sure I wasn't making them look bad. They had people express concern that I was being used as an example, since I was so visible in the congregation. They were worried that, in trying to show that the church really supported marriage, they were scapegoating me and hurting me as an individual. 

Several years after I left, most of the people I was close to there left and started their own church, a kind of reboot of the church we'd attended together. I hope it works for them.

The second time I was told, "If you won't submit to our shepherding in this, I'm not sure what we have for you here." It was because I was marrying James, who isn't a Christian. Unequally yoked and all of that. I stayed at that church for another 3 good years. I wonder now why.

This week, I got kicked out of my third organization, this time before I ever even showed up.

There is a homeschool group that has been meeting weekly in Lago Vista. It's been on Wednesday, when we already have a weekly event, but they recently changed it to Monday, so I was excited to take Mal. They have free play for one hour (outdoors usually, but not now during the five months of climate change hell that is Austin in the spring and summer), and then an organized activity like art or a science project. And someone usually reads aloud. It sounded really cool.

Last week, someone had asked a question and I mentioned something about being "an LGBT family" and how sometimes that means we're not welcome in some homeschooling spaces (which I can usually sniff out and avoid). No one responded in any way to my particular comment, so no biggie. But yesterday, I received a notice that said, "Since the group is growing so quickly recently" -- I'd been a part of it for probably 6 months -- "I just wanted to remind you that we are a Christian group. We are so fortunate to meet at *XYZ church* and we have agreed to them not to say or do anything in the building or on this page that is contrary to the gospel of Jesus Christ." Um, okay? So what exactly IS contrary to the gospel of Christ? Like what are the rules? I mean, I 100% know how my son will respond if he's asked if he has any brothers or sisters. And it's simple. He'll say, "I have a sibling." Does this make the baby Jesus cry?

So, anyway, short story is we are out of the group.

I have concerns about this "keeping the group pure from messiness" and avoiding addressing the realities of the world in which we live. When the ancient Israelites were in captivity, God told them to live their full lives and work for the flourishing of the country around them. I feel like Christianity has more of a "circle the wagons" mentality than a "throw the doors open, you'll be at home here" ethos. It is not difficult for me to understand why church attendance has declined precipitously over the years. There's no place for people who are perceived as "dangerous" because their lives don't align to a pretty Puritanical lived experience that many families and communities want to cultivate. "Protect the children" only applies to THEIR children. If the heathens' children have to suffer, well, I guess the Holy Spirit will take care of it? 

I think that a lot of church-going folk interpret "They will know we are Christians by our love" as love for each other, for the ones who look and think like they do. For the people who don't challenge what they think they know about what the Bible says or means. For people who are easy, who don't have messes out in the open, and for the ones who don't drink, smoke, or cuss. I'm pretty sure Jesus loved everyone. He surely hung out with everyone. 

And, honestly, I don't care at this point. I don't care what those "Christians" think about anything or whether they're right or wrong. I had a very comfortable home in the christian culture when I was naturally just doing stuff that the church liked (like not having sex when I was in high school... which was 100% about self-preservation on my side, but it looked "pure" or "holy" or whatever). When that's not how you live, christianity is quite ostracizing, othering, and unwelcoming. So I'm not wasting my time worrying about it anymore.

"I think I'm going to start taking pictures of my clean folded laundry"

"It might seem crazy, wearing stripes and plaid. I Instagram every meal I've had." - Al Yankovic, "Tacky"

A friend of mine moved recently, and we've been keeping up via email and the occasional text. She'd offered me a one-off job, and when I responded that I really didn't have the time or energy to do it, I was kind of in a funk. Those have been happening on and off for the past year or more, and I'm thinking it might have to do with peri-menopause and hormones. Anyway, I sent her a link to our December pictures because we really did have some good times that month (we have good times every month, actually, of course).

When she responded, she said that she really enjoyed the pictures. "I especially loved seeing your food photos. They are proof that you are accomplishing things every day! I should do the same. Maybe I’ll also take photos of piles of folded laundry!"

My friend is literally the most encouraging person I know. After I'm around her, I always feel so lifted up and affirmed. So her sentiment was sweet, but I also don't think she (or maybe anyone else) understands why I take pictures of food. Maybe it IS because I'm "Tacky," although I don't IG my meals (probably only because Luke is the account-holder-of-record).

But long before social media was a thing, I've taken pictures of food. It started with when I'd eat at really nice restaurants, which wasn't often. Food is plated with care, and it's like a work of art. It's also ephemeral. So I like to capture the beauty of it before it's gone.

James spent hours working on his first bookshelf. He took pictures of each step to record the progress, he learned a lot, and the finished shelf is beautiful. We still have it. We will have it for years. Every time I make a meal, I spend time on it. I learn things when I cook. I produce something that is for my benefit, and often for the benefit of the entire family (except that ingrate, Mal, who only eats my desserts and never my actual meals). 

For me, I don't really take pictures of the food to remind myself that I accomplished a meal, though I suppose it will be a good reminder if I ever need one. It's because I delight in the aesthetics of a pretty, delicious plate (or bowl; or tumbler). I enjoy a tasty, fulfilling meal. Taking a picture of it means that once it's gone, I can still see the picture and remember that great serving of food.

I also take pictures of doughnuts, cakes, ice cream, pretty drinks, cool and weird candy I've never seen before. I mean, I take pictures of everything, actually. My family, nature, public art, weird stuff... This is primarily how I remember things. Every day, Google reminds me of thing that happened on this day last year, the year before, the year before that... And it's fun to see "Oh, yeah, we've been doing the vegetarian eMeals for almost a whole decade!" and "I'd forgotten that I made that cake for Valentine's last year!" and "Thank god Mal isn't a baby anymore!" 

I don't have as much visceral pleasure eating food as I used to, back when I was restricting. Back then, I would practically moan through a good meal or dessert. Now, I still appreciate it, but when you eat what you want, it all kind of stabilizes. Kind of like when you're generally happy, your highs aren't quite as high as they used to be, because you don't have super lows to bounce back from.

Anyway, here are some pictures of meals we've had in the past few weeks. Call me wacky, but I don't think I'd feel as happy about pictures of my balled-up socks.

Obviously, I didn't make these. Aren't they cute, though? Super tasty.

A veggie pancake I saw on TikTok.

Arepas I prepared after we watched "Encanto" a time or two.

Happy weekend and happy eating!

Summer Camp Relationship

Yesterday, we spent the whole day just enjoying the resort. James did get out for a bit to acquire more caffeine-free diet soda because Mal ran out.

I woke up pretty early, took a shower, ate some breakfast on our patio...

...then I borrowed a bicycle to look around the resort. I saw a lot of deer, and a beautiful view of the Colorado River.

When I got back, James and Mal were awake. Mal had met a family the night before at the campfire where we were making s'mores and the kids were running around the lawn. They'd made plans to meet up at the Meet-the-Alpaca event in the morning. We went over, and were late enough that they were literally just hanging out waiting for us. It was glad I'd talked Mal into skipping the playground and heading straight over there. 

After the kids said "hi," we walked together back to the playground, and the kids played together for about an hour.

Mal tried twice to swim, but because it's overcast and got pretty cool the night before, the water was too chilly for him. We walked over to the river while James was out at the store. Then we mostly just hung out and played the rest of the day.

Every night, there are campfires and the resort "gives" you a s'mores kit (there's a $38 per night resort fee per room that covers that and the bikes and some other amenities) between 7 and 9, and the fires are on most of the night. 

Last night was a lot warmer than the previous evening, which had been bordering on chilly, and I could only handle roasting one marshmallow. Mal wanted to see if his friend was at the further campfire, so we walked over and the family wasn't there. We came back to the campfire area closer to our room, because James was in the room finishing up something he was doing and I wanted him to be able to easily find us. Mal told me, "I need to see my girlfriend. She's so beautiful."

I sat safely away from the warmth of the fire while Mal played Mario bad guys for me to defeat.

After a while, Mal wanted to walk back over to the other campfire to check for his friend again. We did, and when it was obvious that they weren't there, he just sat down on the lawn and started crying. He said, "She's my new best friend! I can't believe they're not here." We hugged and comforted him, and he asked, "Do you think she loves me, too?" 

We ended up laying down on the grass and watching stars and clouds. Eventually, we had to insist that it was time to go back to the room, but he was truly heart-broken.

There is a Meet-the-Horse thing in a few minutes, but Mal was awake so late last night that I don't think he'll be up for it. I might head over and see if the family happens to be there and give them our physical address in case the kids want to write each other or something. I've never seen Mal as sad about not getting to see a friend as he was last night. He has such a sweet little heart.

Now if we could just get that dang tooth out...

Rejecting rejection; excluding exclusion

Have you ever experienced rejection or exclusion?

I have. So many times. And it hurts just as badly the 85th time it happens as the first.

I've been excluded from friend groups because I wasn't enough of whatever they were looking for.

I've been rejected by crushes because I didn't look a certain way.

I've been denied acting parts for which I auditioned for the same reason.

A client has told my boss to fire me because he didn't like my basic attitude in my work for him.

I've been told by a recoiling schoolmate, "You're so fat," accompanied by a disgusted look that told me my fatness carried with it my entire unworthiness to be in his sphere for any reason at any time.

I've been resented and ignored for weeks at a time by the person who was supposed to love me most.

I've been invited by church leaders who'd known me and worked with me for six years to leave the church because the means to my emotional wellbeing conflicted with their vision of God's holiness in my life.

I've been invited by a different church's leaders to consider leaving the church if I wasn't willing to submit to their teachings on not marrying an "unbeliever."

Those all hurt, but it's even worse to see my kids experience rejection and exclusion. 

With my older kid, I saw it in gymnastics. D was talented, but not "the same" as the other program participants. Their arms'-length treatment was overt.

With my younger kid, I see it when a potential new friend's parent asks me, "Oh, is your other child a boy or a girl?" and I can't give them a simple answer to their seemingly simple question.

Or when a woman at a playground asked for our phone number so her son could play with "your daughter," then I had to explain that he's actually a boy with long hair. She made no attempt to quiet her nonverbal "I'll never use this phone number."

To watch another human totally write off one of your kids is excruciating.

Everyone wants to belong somewhere. Everyone wants to be accepted for who they are. Everyone, even the most introverted, wants to have someone they can talk to, with whom they can be their genuine selves, and not have to filter out bits in order to avoid rejection.

Except for a couple of the examples above, most of the incidents I relay took place in "Christian" circles. At a private Christian school. In Christian churches. Christian parents trying to raise Christian children.

Of all of the places in the world, the safest should be someone's home. The next safest should be the church, if you choose to attend a church.

This weekend, our church's online service was one of the most comforting and indicative of who we are as a body that I've experienced in a long time. I'm going to share it here, because I think it's important. 

Some churches repeat the phrase, "God accepts you where you ware, but he doesn't want you to stay there." That's not unconditional love. You can get into the nuances about how, sure, ideally people grow and change and become better versions of themselves. But if God truly IS love, then that love is eternal and unchanging and complete and transcends any of our brokenness. 

Also, I'll be frank in that I used to know very securely what I believed, and I don't anymore. But if I believe anything, it's that everyone deserves to know that they're valuable and valid and welcome and cherished. And I know I can guarantee that for anyone who ever wants to visit our church (hopefully in person at some point next year, but you can join us online until then). 

For the rest of my life, I'll err on the side of love, if it turns out to be an error. I don't believe it is. 

"The Talk" (But Not That One)

MAL: When I'm a grown-up, I'm still going to go to Urban Air.

ME: Cool! Grown-ups like to jump on trampolines, too. You always see them at Altitude and Jump Street.

MAL: When I'm a grown-up and I go to Jump Street, I'm still going to use Earthquake only.

ME: Well, you can do the bounce houses, but you can't do the trampolines once you're taller than 48 inches.

MAL: (bursts into tears) I don't want to get taller! I hate changes! Changes are terrible!

ME: Changes can be difficult, but change can be really good.

MAL: No! If you love me, you'll say that change is bad.

ME: I can't say that all change is just bad.

MAL: Then you don't love me!

ME: I love you a whole lot, but I also appreciate change. For instance, if it weren't for changes, I'd still be married to D's dad, and your dad and I wouldn't have gotten married, and we wouldn't have you!

MAL: (hollering in grief) I wish dads didn't even exist!!!

ME: What? Why?!

MAL: So I could marry you!

ME: I love you, but you couldn't marry me, anyway. It's against the law for parents and their children to marry. Do you know what getting married means?

MAL: *noncommittal mumbling*

ME: It means that you find someone who's not already part of your family, and you say, "We're going to be together forever and be a family." And you got born into our family, so we'll be together forever, anyway!

I have no idea how these conversations get from Point A to where they end up. The night before, I was cleaning up the kitchen while Mal stood beside me with his computer, wailing about something hypothetical that had saddened him. I literally said, "What is happening? I don't understand what is going on here" about six times, but I think it probably fifteen times a day.

Updates, including the fowl sort

The other morning, James came down the hall to leave for work, freshly-showered and wearing a "public radio nerd" T-shirt. It struck me that, if I were a single woman who knew him as the guy who came into my coffee shop every morning, or who worked with him, when I saw him, I'd think, "Well, of course that guy is married. They're all married." (James added: Or gay. Also true.)

We've been married just over six years, and together about seven. We certainly do things that irritate each other. But the fact is, and I should likely think on it more frequently, that everything I ever found important in a guy -- empathy, humor, brains, fun, stuff I can't write about here -- James has in a big way.

When I told him this, he was suspicious that I'd eaten his ice cream, but it's true. He's the whole package, and I'm married to him. Lucky me.

I don't believe I mentioned it here yet, so: We got chickens! They have been an absolute joy so far. They're still babies (about 9.5 weeks old) and are growing in their combs and tail fans. We have six, hopefully all hens, and it's been such a balm to look out at that loft and know it's not sitting empty, and expensive reminder of carnage.

I do, of course, live in abject fear for their mortality when they're out; I'm still gun-shy about predators. But we further secured the loft, and are home keeping an eye on them when they're free-ranging until they are a little bigger.

D has spent time with them, and they are so much more domesticated than the pigeons. They don't mind human touch, and will even perch on you if you sit still very long. I mean, they also pee and poop then so I don't recommend allowing that to go on for very long. It's cute, though. Birds are so light.

On the one hand, wanting to be around while the birds mature means that we can't do an overnight in San Antonio, like I've been wanting to do, or go visit my parents for the day for a while. On the other hand, hanging out around here, and not being in the car, is great for the summer heat. Also, it will help us save money for a family trip we've been planning for more than TWO YEARS next summer.

We went to the pool for the first time this season this week. Then Mal had a friend come over after swimming, and they had fun together. We might go over to her house tomorrow.

James is actually on his way home to work from here because all of the electricity is out in his building. Yeesh.

That means it's make-up time. Have a great rest of the week!

Our 6th Anniversary

Our 6th anniversary is in about a week and a half, and I only thought of it (like since our last anniversary) last night. We don't have plans; I don't remember what we did last year. I'm afraid we might be the worst at creating big celebratory traditions that our son will remember forever.

It's interesting, because I see this happen in so many facets of our lives: The way we live, "big" things can be challenging. What do we get the kids for Christmas when we pretty much get them everything they need and most of the things they want when they ask? How do we differentiate this birthday cake from the cake I made two weeks ago? How do we mark a day to celebrate our marital union when we live every day with so much love and partnership and sometimes even cool meals out?

(On a personal level, the borderline obsession I used to have with menus and novelty food is much diminished now that I feel free to eat whatever I want whenever I feel like it.)

Six years. Sometimes it seems fast, and other times it feels like we've been together (and raising a second child) FOREVER.

It's longer than my first marriage... of which I remember very little. When you don't have someone with you to share your memories, they disappear. So much of my 20s is a blur. It's weird.

It's about half as long as my second marriage. We did hit 13 years, but it was already over by then.

Much like Ross Gellar, I never wanted to be "that person." You know, the one who was divorced twice. And every time I hear people (I admire very much, usually) bemoaning how some Christians can support Trump (I'm not a fan) when, among other things, he's "twice-divorced" or on his third spouse, I'm like... welp, that's me, too. Guess I'm just a big old slimy scumbag.

That was sarcasm, actually. I know my life; I know what I've done and why I did it. It wasn't always pure and blameless.

However, while there are individual things I would be tempted to tweak if given a do-over, where I've ended up is pretty spectacular. In a quiet, comfortable way.

I'm sitting at my dining room table while Mal watched a video and D sleeps. There are two pigeons out on the flight deck of the loft, and about 4 birds (a cardinal couple, a Carolina chickadee, and a house finch) at the bird feeder in the back yard. I can see it all from here (except D). Dinner is in the oven and there's a dog barking outside. I'm vacation planning as I blog, and I'm ready for James to come home.

It's pretty great.

Granted, marriage can be challenging at times. James and I feel like ships passing in the evening/morning in ways that never happened when D was little; Mal just requires more of everything, so it can be a trick even to have a conversation, much less alone time. But there is no drama. There is no waiting for the other shoe to drop. To put it in Harry Potter terms: My scar hasn't hurt in more than six years; all is well.

Happy anniversary, baby! Here's to another year or two, minimum.

Quick Thought About "Dumplin'" the Movie, a personal note

If you haven't watched Netflix's recent movie "Dumplin'", do yourself a favor and do. The most negative feedback I've read is that it's not as good as the book, and movies never are, so I waited to read it until I'd seen the film.

There is a lot to love about it. For me, the lion's share involved the portrayal of female friendships (mostly among high-schoolers). In almost every movie where you have an "outcast" (fat, nerd, jock girl, etc.) and then "normals," one or the other will be framed as basically evil, and one or the other will spend much of the movie plotting revenge or hating the other.

None of that in this movie. The main tension is between the title character and her mom, though there is some cursory idiot teen guy bullying (there are plenty of great guys in the movie, though; the jerks don't get much screen time or character development).

The young women in this movie are kind and supportive of each other. They might disagree, and even argue, but there is an underlying good will that pervades. I feel like this is a much more genuine picture of my experience with girlfriends.

But here is one thing that really struck me about the movie:

One of the story lines (not the main one) is of a male co-worker who is interested in the title character. He is conventionally good-looking, and straight-sized. The main character is also attractive, and is fat.

When it becomes obvious that he likes her and she sees a beauty-queen-type flirting with him, she becomes upset and tells him that they don't work "in the real world." She tells him that he should reasonably be with someone like the pageant staple girl (who, by the way, is an absolutely guileless character; not demonized at all, which, have I mentioned, I LOVE?!).

This was NOT my experience in high school.

I blame my lack of a real high school boyfriend on two things: I was fat (and, really, I wasn't *that* fat). I was not having sex. Maybe also that I'm a dork, but whatever.

I was never flummoxed when a guy liked me. I was always thrown off when a guy DIDN'T. No matter how many times it happened. No matter how consistent it was, and how much self-esteem-damage I had, and how much I hated my body. I was repeatedly crushed and incredulous when a guy in whom I was interested wasn't having it.

I seriously thought, "Do you KNOW me?! I'm super cool, and fun, and funny, and smart, and you'd love hanging out with me!" I might have felt like a flabby monster compared to my closest friends, but I KNEW I could hold my own in terms of personality and having so much to offer a relationship.

I am sure there are plenty of people who feel like Willowdean did: That if you look a certain way, you don't get the "Patriarchy Prizes" (h/t to Virgie Tovar). I'm very sad for those people, and am ready to build a world where this isn't the case. But for me, it never was. I always assumed I was worthy of love and respect and companionship. I'm going to credit my parents for that.

I've still spend a stupid amount of time in my life trying to diminish my body to fit into the ridiculously tiny box considered "desirable" by people who truly don't deserve my efforts. But somehow I've always seen that part of my struggle as separate from the person I am, who deserves good things just as much as my birthday twin, Cameron Diaz.

Birthday wishes and a bit of looking back

Happy birthday, D!

I won't say the trite things like "I can't believe you're 17" or "It all happened so fast," mostly because I CAN believe it, and it happened in exactly 17 years. I've been uploading pictures to the cloud from old back-up thumb drives, and have relived so much of your life through visual memories in the past few days. And I have some thoughts. (surprise, surprise)

Man, I've loved being your mom. Most of my best memories involve you, even if you don't remember them yourself. The pictures bear out those times. But they also testify quietly to some things you CAN'T see in the pictures. Every parent, every person, has things in their life that they would like to go back and tweak. I don't spend too much time worrying about those things. But there are several overreaching aspects of your childhood, and of being your mom, that I regret significantly and wish I had not done/could undo/had done better. They are:

1) Authoritarian parenting. I didn't ever think about whether there was another way when you were a kid. It was all I'd been exposed to, and so it was easy to fall into that. And when telling you what to do didn't work, I would tell you what to do again... either LOUDER or just with more words. Over and over again. And I hate that. I desperately wish that when you'd been born, I'd seen our relationship as more of a partnership than a top-down enterprise. I always tried to respect your opinion and personhood, but it was always with the idea that I was in charge. I am sorry. I'm sorry it took me until you were a teenager to realize that there was another way. 

2) Lack of empathy when you were genuinely in need. There have been times in your life when I've been incredibly impatient with you when you expressed exhaustion and frustration at times that were inconvenient to me. When I look back on them, I can think of only a few reasons I reacted in such an ugly manner.

The first is that, when I've recognized that you absolutely COULD do something (like math when you were 6, or riding a bike a few miles when you were 11), I thought pushing you to complete it using whatever means necessary would eventually help you see that you were capable, too. How stupid. That doesn't work for me; why would I think it would work for someone else?

The second is that, in some situations when you were ready just to give up, I didn't have an out or know what else to do. So I reacted in my own stress and inability to your stress and inability.

The final one is that, in times when I've been extremely needy and requiring the most support, I have found that same need in others to be ugly. So maybe I was kind of mad that you needed emotional support when I didn't feel like I had any to spare? 

Regardless, I'm so sorry. I wish I'd stopped everything every time and sat with you to figure out a way we could work it out together. The "reasons" I've thought of aren't an excuse, and I regret it deeply.

3) Related to the above, but encompassing a lot more: I wish that the day I filed for divorce, I'd started the habit of waking up every morning and looking at myself in the mirror and reminding myself, "You're the adult. You're doing what you need to do. Your feelings will save for later; take care of D's." I was so focused on my own hurt for a good year and a half after the divorce that I was not at all as attentive to your moods and needs as I should have been. I wish I'd left the church after the first meeting with the elders; that failed reconciliation process sucked so much energy and joy that I could have focused on you. I wish I'd not tried to maintain any extra-familial relationships that required energy and were draining. In general, I'd never want to live any of my life over, but if I could go back to that time and do it over, knowing what I know now, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I failed you on so many occasions.

Those things said, I hope you know or someday will realize that I have always wanted you to be happy and have made conscious decisions at the time that I believed would be to your benefit. Even when I was wrong.

There was one time when you were about 5, and it was a gorgeous fall day, and you'd dressed up like you were going to a party, but we weren't going anywhere special. Instead, we went outside, and you were crunching around in the leaves and chasing butterflies. I sat down on the driveway because it was warm, having been in the sun all day. I thought, "This is a magical moment." Everything slowed down. I didn't have a camera, and knew I'd have to carefully remember everything  exactly as it was. You were happy and free and I absolutely relished those moments of your childhood.

Another favorite was driving all over Texoma with you, doing mystery shops, listening to audio books and eating French fries and trying on clothes. You were such a great companion; I never could have done those things if you hadn't been game. (I'll never forget coming back to the car after a revealed shop at the Burger King near Love Field when you told me, "Dumbledore is dead." I felt like a different person the whole drive home.)

Also, all of those day trips into Dallas to visit the art museum, or the zoos, or Sharkarosa Ranch. I hope you are glad we homeschooled. I feel like I had a chance to live another childhood of wonder and exploration because of it. 

I have always loved spending time with you. As you've matured and come into your own, I don't wistfully wish for those times back; I'm just extremely grateful to have had them. It's been a blessing to watch you grow up. I will miss you in a few years when you set off into your own solo adventure.

I love you. I hope you have a great 18th year. 

Mom

Dear 15-year-old me...

Hey, you. I know you're upset right now. Your first experience with a boyfriend just ended, and you're disappointed. I'm sorry. It really does suck. But before you start high school and before you begin a journey that will eat up so much of the next three decades of your life, I want to intervene. I want to assure you that there is another way. And, mostly, I want you to understand how much you can accomplish if you are willing to try to throw off the false messages with which our culture has been bombarding you since the day you were born.

I know something about you that maybe no one else knows. You hate your body. You feel monstrous and huge, completely "other" from even your closest friends. When you sit on the floor, cross-legged, reading notes at a sleepover, you notice how the flesh on your friend's leg doesn't round up at the calves like yours does. You see another friend wearing clothes that you think would look like a clown costume on you, and you're jealous that she can get away with picking anything from the thrift store shelves and it will look nice. You stand in front of your parents' vanity mirror and extend your belly as far as it will go. "I hate you," you tell yourself. "You're disgusting."

That, you will learn, many, MANY years from now, is called "internalized fatphobia." You have bought into the idea that fat people are lazy and gross. You are neither. Your self-talk is making it worse. First of all, isn't true; your future self will look at pictures of you at this time and be shocked at how someone so beautiful could feel so ugly. Secondly, even if it were true that you were exceptionally corpulent, science will bear out that genetics and puberty are the culprits and not your lack of motivation or appreciation of good food or any moral failure on your own part.

But every time you reinforce to yourself the message that you are somehow "less" because you do not meet some arbitrary standard of beauty, you make life worse for yourself.

You do not owe thinness to anyone. Not even yourself. You have believed a lie, and you will waste so much time and emotional energy powering this machine. Please don't. Please try to find the better way.

You don't realize it, but every time you indulge in self-hating fatphobia, you also make life worse for other women. Every time you judge yourself, you judge them, too. Either they're "thinner" than you and therefore an object of envy and resentment, or they're "fatter" than you and a source of judgmental feelings of relief and maybe even superiority.

Other women are not your competition. You don't have competition. This isn't a race or a game to be won. Living that way is isolating. Other women are your comrades. Don't you see how damaging this is to you all? You should all be on the same side. You should be about dismantling this world view, not continuing to prop it up.

Let me give this to you straight: Purposeful weight loss (through dieting and/or exercise) does not work in the long-term. Science has borne this out time and time again. Any program or study that promises or shows weight-loss only follows participants for two years. Within 5 years, 95% of people who lose weight have gained most if not all of it back. I'd cite multiple sources, but you do not have the internet like we do yet. Trust me, the future is great in this regard. You'll have access to so much information and so much validation. I just wish you could believe me in 1987.

Not only does purposeful weight loss not work, it backfires. Your body's metabolism slows down when you lose weight, and it stays slower. This means that the ultra-low-fat diet you will engage in from the time you're 20 until you're 23 will affect your ability to manage weight for the rest of your life. And again when you're 30 and lose weight "healthier." And 33. Every time, it will be harder. Every time, it will require more work. Every time, you'll have to expend more energy to work out and eat fewer and fewer calories. And you'll always gain it back. Always. Even when you keep it off for almost 7 years.

Health-wise, weight cycling like this puts a huge burden on your cardiovascular system. And repeated dieting interferes with your ability to listen to your body's hunger and satiety signals. It will further separate you from your social contacts, when you don't allow yourself to eat after a certain time of day, or when you check out of a conversation early because you cannot miss a workout or terror will ensue.

You're not going to believe this, but this is the most important thing: The best thing you can do for yourself at 15 is to rid yourself of the fatphobic attitudes the culture has given you, and then work on helping everyone else do it, too.

This is actually easier, and much more fulfilling, than hating and berating yourself. It's more productive than engaging in a mental and physical illness to make your body more appealing to yourself and others.

So... what if you do it? What if you manage to chip away at every lie you've ever believed about yourself and your body and decide to dedicate your energy to things like pursuing your passions? There is a two-pronged problem here, and you'll have addressed only one.

The second part is that, yeah, pretty much everyone in our culture has co-opted bigotry toward fat people. This will include men in whom you are interested, and who you want to be interested in you.

I wish you could just forget about dating for the next ten years, but I know you won't, so maybe you'll just take this to heart:

If any man claims to care about you but shows disdain toward your body, HE DOES NOT LOVE YOU. Love is not conditional. He might like your personality. He might find you humorous or think you have a beautiful face or feel like you might make a good partner. However, ultimately, he is selfish and foolish.

Your body is not a shell that holds you. Your body IS you. You are your body. Everything you do -- sleeping, talking, walking, laughing, watching a movie, singing -- EVERYTHING you do is enabled by your amazing body. It's not a shirt you can change to please someone else (though, for what it's worth, if someone doesn't like your shirt and thinks he can tell you to change it, he's probably not great for you, either).

If someone shows disdain for your body, END THE RELATIONSHIP. That might sound drastic, but it is absolutely necessary. There is no getting around or over it. If someone's feelings of affection for you are predicated on your body looking a certain way, that is not unconditional love, and you need to remove yourself from it.

I heard a podcast once (kind of like a radio program) where a woman was saying that she'd realized something about a man she was living with when she was engaging in disordered eating and exercise: He was probably the only person who knew how unraveled her life was, and not only did he not stop it, he encouraged her. He encouraged a woman he alleged to love to continually sacrifice her pleasure and ease (by passing up food she liked, by spending hours doing work-outs she hated, etc.) because her thinness was social currency to him. To put a finer point on it: He shows up with a hottie on his arm, and it make him look like a big deal. So she's doing all of this horrible labor just for him to glean the benefits. That's definitely not love. It's dysfunctional.

And if any man says, "I can't help it; I'm just not attracted to bigger women," then whatever. Good luck to him. He is a bigot, and you don't need that kind of person in your life.

Not at all incidentally, you, too, have that bigotry. It is death, and you need to cut it out immediately. Everyone, including yourself, yes, but EVERY SINGLE PERSON, deserves respect and the freedom to move and exist in the world without harassment regardless of how they look, of their size, of their abilities, of their health, or of anything. Every single person deserves to eat what they want, go where they want, wear what they want, and be who they are without anyone else's opinions being foisted on them. You have to take your thoughts captive and excise them. The phrase, "Do they even own a mirror?" should die on the vine long before it becomes a conscious thought. No one should do this to you. You cannot do it to others. Or yourself.

I'm writing you because I don't want you to look around at the great life you have 30 years from now and wonder how much further along you might be if you could trade those 300,000+ minutes (that's more than half a year!) you spent working out and the countless hours you meal-planned and obsessed over what you were going to eat, and how many calories it had, and how much fat, and when was your next free day, and how many candy corn could you manage in one day when you otherwise ate only dry spinach for doing something that would have made your life or the world at large a better place.

You will get to this place of freedom. It will be a hard-won battle, and, actually, it will be ongoing, as some of these dogmas die more slowly than others. But if you could just start on it now instead of after your second divorce (*wince* I KNOW), you could save yourself a lot of heartache and wasted time.

I know you don't cuss. I wish, just a little bit, that you did. Because instead of responding with silent and hidden hurt when someone judges you as unworthy due to your body type, I really wish you could just happily respond, "F*(4 that" and get on with your life without a second thought. Before you're middle-aged.

In retrospect,
46-year-old me