Trying to Maintain some Dignity

I ran. It's supposed to be good for me, no? I ran. I ran knowing it would be horrible. I ran thinking it would be worse -- in ways; not expecting it to be quite so bad, in others. I ran.

I'm experimenting. I'm trying different things. What will this take, this friendship? How much will I have to invest? In time? In money? In emotion? Today it was emotion.

I ran. I got dressed, like I get dressed, which is never fun. I'm not a runner. I feel like an idiot. I'm not going to go out and buy a nice little running outfit. I'm not that person. But I look like an idiot just the same.

My sweats are too short. My sneakers too white. My hips too wide. My ass too flat (somehow it has taken on the shape of its new land). My body's an amorphous mess.

I ran. It didn't start out quite so bad, despite the ridiculousness I felt. I didn't suffer the embarrassment I thought I might at having to stop after one short block. I continued. As in all things, if you can make it past the worst, you can go on forever. I forced myself. My body kept saying, "I can't. I can't." And my mind plugged on. Ok. That's a lie. It was the other way round. My mind kept getting in the way: "I can't. I can't." But my body plugged on. I hate my body, but my body should really hate my mind.

I kept on. I kept running. And when I finally came around to about the one-mile mark, when I finally came close to achieving my goal, it all fell apart. Some call it self-sabotage. I say it's just the way it is.

I could feel every extra pound on my body. I could feel this newly acquired layer of fat hanging from my bones. I could feel it move with every clumsy step. I could feel the impact on my ankles every time the were so brutally forced to bear the weight. I could feel the blobbishness, the misshapenness, the amorphous mess. I could feel it all. And perhaps it was the endorphins, but I started to cry.

Must I take this humiliation!?! How much must I bear? Will it keep getting worse, before it gets better? I've never had this happen before. Not like this. Is it just a sign of how bad things have gotten, how far away I am from this beast that is my body, this beast that is my mind?

It's bad enough I have to suffer the discomfort. It's bad enough I can't seem to get any pleasure from this effort, from this "doing" for myself. Must I also cry? Must I cry like a pathetic mess of hormones gone bad?

The icing on the cake.

I continue crying for a while. I can't stop. I continue walking, walking and crying, trying to hide my face from any passers-by, walking and crying, crying and walking and hiding. And I come home.

Eventually, you have to laugh.
And if you would have seen my blotchy face inside the elevator mirror, you might have done so. I sure did. This is supposed to make me more attractive? This is supposed to make me feel better about myself? My hair is standing on end, sticking out to every side, and my face looks like a bad allergic reaction -- speckled in red and white blotches resembling hives. Sweet. I break out in a fit of laughter at my own image. I mean, vanity aside, I sure don't look very healthy.

all in due time

House of Mirrors

I've been told that I see myself as if in a house of mirrors. What do you call those things -- the bizarre distorted mirror mazes at carnivals and fairs? Am I to believe that what I see in the mirror is not real? That's insane. But then, really, who the heck has perspective when it comes to themselves? I concede that I see myself differently from one moment to the next. Which is more real? Can a person really retain that much water? Can what I'm wearing have that strong an effect? More likely what I'm feeling, how I'm feeling, how I am. Today, I am fat. Today, I want to crawl outside of my skin. Today, I cannot stand to be trapped inside this meaty, mushy body -- this gravity-stricken, stretched out, dull ball -- this cramped up knot of grinding bones. Not today. But maybe tomorrow I'll feel sexy. Maybe only for a minute. I think I still remember what it felt like. I moved differently then.

So.. what are the problems? What are the steps? What are the solutions? Let's see where we have to start. And let's start simple.

My skin is dry. My skin is old. It doesn't fit me anymore. It hangs on my bones. But I'm still fat. That's utterly disgusting.

More water. First and foremost, more water. I can do that. I can ACTUALLY do that. Now that I've quit smoking, I can actually do that. What's the goal? Eight bottles a day. Today, I've had none. It's 2:14 p.m., and I've had none. And don't think that I jumped up to run for the kitchen just as I wrote that. Nope, I haven't moved. But, I still feel I can do it. ;-)
See, I'm optimistic.

My stomach is a disaster! I love in constant flux between constipation and diarrhea, with a ton of acid reflux in the middle. It's quite painful, actually.

More fiber. I can do that. Oats, bran, whole wheats, rye, barley, beans, peas, cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, citrus fruits, strawberries, apples. Yeah, I can do that. I eat plenty of oranges. I'll try more of the rest. What about nuts? Are nuts good? I eat plenty of nuts. But lately, they seem to hurt my stomach.

A better diet in general. I can do that too. No late night pizza. Hell, no pizza at all probably. The tomato does my no good, and the cheese just ain't much better. Oh, but it's so good.

What I can never get past is the short-vision quality of life. What's the point of all this stuff, if in the end, you can't enjoy every day because you're too busy depriving yourself. I know. It's not about that, but... I hate depriving myself. And I refuse to be one of those people that's constantly concocting little schemes to trick themselves. I don't want to have to rationalize how I am in no way depriving myself -- that in fact I would be depriving myself of a healthy, happy life if I did NOT do this. Oy! I'm just not that person!

I live in a house of mirrors, but I need to be honest with myself.

And then there's all that gravity and mushiness and parts now living in different places. This is not where my ass used to be. What's this here? Oh, my! "No, no, no, no, no," she says shaking her head and gesticulating wildly. "This is not me."

I must do exercise. It'd take a pretty powerful house of mirrors not to come to this conclusion.

Focus on the Body

I'm not comfortable focusing too much on my physical being. I am not comfortable being "one of those people" that thinks too much about physical appearances. I don't want to be a gym freak. In fact, I hate the idea of going to a gym. (Just the idea, mind you. Once I'm there, it's really not so bad.) I hate the idea of exercise for exercise sake, though I like to be fit. I like to think that an active lifestyle can get you all the exercise you need. But these days, I spend far too much time in front of a computer. And I no longer live three blocks from the beach. No, in fact there's no beach at all here, and outside sports are limited to a few months out of the year. How is one supposed to stay active? I can't cover myself up all year round. Hey, hey, gym, I guess I need you after all.

I don't think I come across as particularly uncomfortable or physically insecure. At least I've learned to hide that. But do I hate my body? Oh, of course. But I hate to be such a girl! I don't talk about it, of course. That would be pathetic. I refuse to go there. I won't complain, and I certainly won't seek reassurance with self-deprecation. That ceases to be sexy past the age of 22 (if that). Though in general I do love self-deprecation -- just not to this end. No, this whole process of befriending my body must go by as unperceived as possible, or not go on at all.

My physical insecurities are kept below the surface. I'm not an honest person, you see. If you knew how insecure I was, then that much more I'd be. I have to keep things in balance.

So, the truth.. what I hide from you stays more hidden to me.
The more I focus on my body, the more it hurts, the more I hate it.

I like to think I'm not a part of it. I like to thing I can surpass it. I like to think it doesn't matter. But it does. And the discomfort creeps in. The neglected body screams back at the abandonment. Cracks break out across its very foundation, screaming to be noticed. And I can't help but notice. I can't help but notice when I'm confined to my bed. I can't help but notice when I feel pain every time I place my foot on the floor. I can't help but notice when I find my parts are in all the wrong places.

So, I must learn how to focus. I must deal right through the discomfort until I no longer feel it. I must force myself to look it in the eye, stand up to it, defeat it. I must learn to love myself. How ridiculous is that? I must at least learn to tolerate myself. Am I focusing on my body to get over it, or to make it better? Neither, I suppose -- only to befriend it. But to be its friends, I must let go the hatred. To let go the hatred, I must first force myself to nurture that which I do not love. I suppose it's quite like an arranged marriage of sorts. Resent it as I might, I must feign love in order to create the circumstances needed to incite love.

This is not going to be easy, my friends.

Quality of Life

I'm trying to befriend my body again. We had a little falling out some years ago, and I've come to realize the mutual benefit of our being allies. Ours wasn't a definitive rupture; we simply slipped apart. One small betrayal after another piled on and spiraled into an all-out war.

Mind: Why should I suffer a respiratory illness when I quit smoking? That's just wrong. I might as well have a cigarette.

Body: Why would she burn all my cilia off when I just grew them back? Why would she feed me nicotine when I've just suffered through withdrawal? I might as well shut down.

I know. Most things aren't so simple. And you can't expect immediate results. I know. I know. But time and time again I've felt betrayed.

You know what I mean. It's the seemingly faulty logic. It's the irony. What are we up against? Most of us are overly concerned about losing weight. How do we do this? Eating less. Eating healthier. Doing exercise. In order to lose weight, you need to exercise. We all know that. But exercise makes you hungry. Of course, it does. And you need the food to burn for energy, so... how the heck are you supposed to lose weight. I know. I know. It's all about balance. But, must it be so hard? It hardly seems fair.

My body and I are not friends. We have not treated each other well. We are trying to change that. But change is never easy. And I've never been comfortable spending too much energy on myself. Perhaps that's part of the problem. Perhaps my mind and I are not friends either. But then who am I if not my mind and body -- and why so much self-hatred?

I have come to realize that the only way we can make it through this world -- my body and I -- is as allies. The grace period is up, and though we may have taken each other for granted all these years, we can no longer afford to do so.

Call it quality of life.