Tag Archives: fat

A new year; the same me?

It’s January 2011, and it’s been over two months since I’ve updated my blog. Sometimes I’ve forgotten about it, sometimes I haven’t had anything to say, and sometimes I’ve wanted to say things and not known how to do it. But the only way to get back to it is to get back to it, so, well, I’m back.

A new year often inspires people to be reflective of where they’ve been and where they are going and I am no exception. As I write this, much is the same as the last time I wrote. I am still unemployed, I am still living with my parents, I am still getting a divorce – hell, just like previous years, I didn’t do NaNoWriMo.

I feel like these are facts that I should be upset or discouraged by, but somehow, even though they look bad written out, living them feels better than I’d expected.

I have had a long history of self-flagellation, of fighting myself, of wanting to be different, to be better, and my definition of better always managed to be something I never consciously chose; it just lurked in my head, waiting to chastise me for not living up to the ideal. Whether it was my body, my career, my relationships, even my hobbies – you name it, and I never thought I was good enough. And isn’t this the story of every striver, every Lisa Simpson-esque overachiever? My inclination has also been to beat myself up for not even having original angst, a self-defeating cycle if ever I’ve seen one.

This mindset has resulted in me being extremely risk-adverse. I don’t know if I ever articulated it as such, but I would think things like, oh, I would rather not get my hopes up and then be disappointed, better to just not try. I can’t even really think of any examples of things that I wanted and didn’t go after; more, I just didn’t aim for very much. The risk of rejection or failure absolutely paralyzed me.

And so here I am unemployed, the longest stretch of unemployment I’ve ever had, and as much as I am aching to get back to work, I have to say that it hasn’t been an entirely negative experience. For one thing, it has forced me to experience rejection, and realize that I can handle it. This seems so obvious, but previously, I have always gone on an interview and been immediately offered the job – I am almost 37 years old and this is the first time I’ve gone on job interviews where I wasn’t hired! I know that I’ve been fortunate in the past, but those easy experiences kept me sheltered. The thought of not being chosen always seemed like it would be such a crushing blow, such a referendum on my worthiness as a human. And yet, now that I’ve been on three interviews where I haven’t been hired, I’ve been disappointed, but it is much more manageable than I’d expected. I feel much more realistic now.

What has also been helpful has been contemplating exactly what kind of work I want to do. Again, the over-achiever syndrome – I have always had these vague feelings that I should be doing something amazing, something incredible, get a Ph.D., become a CEO, a bestselling author, something that will publicly affirm my worth. Yet this is not who I am! The more job descriptions I look at, the more I realize that I am not a leader, an innovator, a star – and finally, I feel okay with that. I am looking at jobs with titles like Program Associate or Project Administrator and realizing that that’s the kind of work I like. I like taking people’s ideas and executing them, thinking of the little details and figuring out the snags and coming up with other ways to get around them. I like working with people, and helping explain things, and providing good service. I like working 40 hours a week and not bringing my work home with me. Part of me thinks, I have a masters degree and a 4.0 GPA from an Ivy League university, shouldn’t I be aiming higher? But feeling like I should be aiming higher, according to some amorphous external standard, hasn’t made me happy, at all. And the more I accept that what I like is what I like, the more at peace I feel.

This is something I have been experiencing in my personal life as well. (And just a warning – I am going to talk about my sex life. Not very explicitly, but if that will weird you out because you know me, you might want to stop reading here. It gets really personal.)

When Carl and I decided to separate, we also agreed that we would be free to see other people. Initially, the idea seemed very academic and theoretical to me, but after about a month apart I got curious, and I started exploring aspects of my sexuality that I had fantasized about for decades, but had never dared to act upon except in the smallest of ways. (Again, no details, but let’s just say it’s kinky stuff.) I had often felt conflicted about my desires, felt like they were a representation of my low self-esteem, perhaps a way to feel bad about myself, and I often did feel guilty or ashamed or dirty for the things I wanted.

Yet I chanced upon meeting someone whose desires very closely matched mine, and took a huge risk in making my fantasies a reality. Not only was it better than I expected, but over the past few months he has been acting as a mentor of sorts, and under his guidance I have done things I never imagined I would, and it has been simply incredible. Not just physically; it has been mentally and emotionally liberating in a way I absolutely did not expect. The guilt and shame I’d felt for so long about what I wanted has melted, dissolved – I did these things, and the world did not end! I am still the same person I ever was! Again, I like what I like, and I can’t believe I fought against it for so long.

And in keeping with this blog’s theme, I have to say that even as positive as my body image has been in the past, being sexual in this way has been an entirely new way to experience my body, experience myself in my body. I have discarded self-consciousness I didn’t even realize I still had. I am not just comfortable in my skin; I revel in being looked at, at being seen. I move and touch and receive touch seamlessly; my body and my skin and my mind act in absolute concert. I didn’t even imagine this was possible!

It has been somewhat hard to know how to integrate this into my life; for one, it is so heady and overwhelming that I fear that for the people I do talk to about it, I’m pretty much shouting my bliss from the rooftops. And yet I have also felt unable to talk about it in other ways – some of the things I have done are so extreme and out of the ordinary that to say them out loud sounds almost like abuse, and in the beginning, I worried that perhaps I was fooling myself. I have a long history of being in bad situations that I could find any way possible to justify to myself, to convince myself that everything was fine when it really wasn’t. And I’m not cocky enough to say 100% that this isn’t the case now, but I have been making it a point to check in with myself after each time and see how I’m feeling, and goddamn if I don’t feel peaceful and blissful and just plain happy each time. And in a way, having experienced abuse in the past has been a very useful yardstick – I know what abuse feels like, and this doesn’t feel at all like that. If that changes, I’ll deal with it, but for now, it feels amazing to trust myself like this.

So. Wow. This is a lot of navel gazing, and a lot more disjointed and less cohesive than I generally aim for when I write, but so be it. My goal in writing for an audience instead of a private diary is not just to share my experiences in the hopes that they’ll resonate with someone reading, but to keep myself honest, bring things into the light of day. It feels so good to accept who I am and what I like and what I want – my initial inclination is to bemoan how long it took me to make such simple strides, but you know what? I’m just going to enjoy it.



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What a difference a week makes

I have been back in the US and back living with my parents for almost a week, and although I suspected it would be difficult, I am a little thrown at how unmoored I feel after just this small amount of time living in the house where I grew up.

Case in point: I am writing this entry on my father’s computer (because he doesn’t have wireless in the house, I can’t get online on my laptop) with the private browsing on so there is no record of my blog or what I am writing.  I am alone in the house and I feel like I am sneaking around.

I think back to this post and realize that I am going to have to tap into those skills HARD.  I really had no idea what living with my folks again was going to do to my eating, but whoa boy, it has been triggering being here.  The second night I was here, I asked my mother if she had any ice cream, and she said “oh, have a yogurt, it’s better for you,” and I capitulated and ate the yogurt.  It was yummy, it was fine, but I’m a grown woman and I can eat the ice cream if I want to.  Did I say that out loud?  Of course not.

Then my mom started showing me her book on mindful eating and how it’ll get you to lose weight, and I just sort of brushed it away with some kind of distraction.  Did I mention, oh by the way, I’ve been working with a nutritionist and know all about mindful eating?  Of course not either.

On Michelle’s advice, I bought some food of my own to have in the house, but I felt scrutinized buying it and I feel scrutinized eating it.  Last night I sat in the living room waiting for my mother to go to bed so I could eat some crackers in peace.  I eventually decided I didn’t want the crackers because I had heartburn, but I hated getting wrapped up in all that drama around whether or not I should or shouldn’t want them in my head. 

Now my parents are out grocery shopping (as they do every Monday night, as they have done for the past 25 years at least) and I am home alone and I just ate 7 cookies in a row that I didn’t necessarily want all of out of mild hunger and raging defiance.  I am finding that I am a little hungrier during the day than I prefer to be because I am not eating all I need to stay satisfied because I don’t want the big old judgy eyeball from my mother. 

So I know that this isn’t working for me the way it is, but I am not yet sure how to handle it.  I can certainly work alone on eating what I want out of desire instead of rebellion – I really have no desire to feel 15 years old again – but lurking in the back of my head is the idea that I might have to have a conversation with my mother where I lay down what’s what with me in an adult and reasonable manner, and that is so far from the way my family communicates (or doesn’t communicate!) that it is intimidating the socks off of me.

I guess if nothing else, this is an opportunity to really get to work on being an adult, because this feeling like a kid again really bites.


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Going home again

In exactly one week, I will be living with my parents for the first time in 13 years.  It is meant to be a temporary situation – a stop-gap place to stay while I look for a job and then get an apartment of my own – and I am incredibly grateful that they are offering me a safety net that I don’t take for granted.  Yet, living with my parents again is bound to be a challenge.

My parents are the primary reason that this blog is pseudonymous.  I wanted to feel free to write about lingering issues from my childhood that hold me back, and I don’t want them to find this blog and feel hurt by what I say.  (My mother is not very internet savvy, and my father does not frequent the same spaces online that I do, but I am wary of the magic of Google.)  On the other hand, I have really let that fear of what my parents think hold me back for quite a long time.

My mother taught me to read at a very young age – I was able to read independently by the age of 3, and was reading Nancy Drew books when I was 5.  My verbal skills spilled over into writing, and my family and my teachers always praised my writing, telling me that I should be an author one day.  My parents used to say all the time that they thought I should write a book about “our crazy family,” although it was always understood that they meant the extended family – our nuclear family was positioned as the lone island of reason in a sea of intergenerational dysfunction.

When I was in high school, I was incredibly lucky to attend a 5-week creative writing program at a local university.  It was the first time I had ever spent the night somewhere that wasn’t a friend’s house or my grandmother’s, and 5 weeks was such long time away from home at that point in my life, just a year before college.  It was exciting and heady and overwhelming at the same time.  I had never experienced independence from my family before, and while I had a few good individual friendships, I got to quickly bond with a group of friends in an intense way that was a wonderful novelty for lonely loser Claudia.

The writing was harder.  I have an unfortunate competitive streak, borne of deep insecurity, and it was intimidating to be surrounded by people my own age who were spectacular budding writers, flowing forth with words and ideas and creativity in an unbounded river.  I was much more tentative, hesitant, stuck.  But I plugged away at my work and charged my batteries with the electric energy of all the creation around me.

A few weeks into the program was Family Day, where parents and other family members came to visit the campus and the students displayed their works of art, their photography, their concerts and plays and in my case, readings.  I had a number of pieces in draft form, but most were not polished enough for public consumption, so I chose to read an innocuous little poem that I’d written about a day with my best friend Nathaniel (a wonderful man who has been one of my dearest friends for 25 years and is still going strong), which was the same poem I had chosen to publish in the literary magazine as well.  I was scared and nervous but the reading went fine.

Yet as my parents were leaving for the day, they berated me for humiliating them and wasting their money on the program.  That I had the gall to choose a poem about my friend.  That I was the only person who had the same piece for the literary magazine and the reading.  That it wasn’t good enough and I wasn’t good enough.  I am still not sure why such a small thing set them off in such a large way, but my mother told me that she was glad that her own mother was unable to attend Family Day, because she would have been ashamed to have her there.

They left and I was heartbroken and completely bewildered.  My lovely group of friends comforted me with words of support and a full-on pile of hugs and hair stroking and as I look back I think this was one of my first steps of detaching from my family, as unwelcome the need to was at the time.

When the five weeks of the program ended, I came back with my portfolio and a written assessment of my work and progress.   The feedback was honest and helpful and indicated that at the time, I had promise and worked hard but my work was not at the range of the very best.  I was devastated not by the feedback but my father’s reaction.  He was angry, ragingly angry, that I had wasted his money that we couldn’t spare by not coming back with straight A’s and I don’t know, a publishable novel?  He was angry that I wrote letters to my friends from camp on the computer in the basement instead of watching TV with the family.  He was angry that I spent so much time talking to Nathaniel, and threatened that if Nathaniel went to the same college I did, he wouldn’t pay for tuition.

Ironically, after I returned from camp, my writer’s block loosened and stories and poems poured out of me the way they hadn’t at camp.  I submitted my revised portfolio along with my college application and received a merit scholarship that paid half of my tuition for all four years.

Yet after that, I stopped writing – the words and the desire to use them dried up.

I don’t blame my parents directly for it, but here I am, talking about it still, 15 years after the fact.  So obviously it’s still with me.  The knowledge that sharing my writing with my parents isn’t safe, the disappointment in how much they failed me in that respect.

I understand it better with time.  My family is so tight-knit as to be unhealthily enmeshed, and I’m the oldest child, the oldest grandchild, the oldest great-grandchild on all sides.  The first member of my family to go to college.  The precocious straight-A student.  I carried the weight of innumerable expectations on my head, and my parents sacrificed a great deal so my brother and I could have so many things that they weren’t able to.  My struggling baby steps at independence and self-expression must have been very emotional and volatile and stressful to the family system in a way none of us were prepared for.  And my parents didn’t handle it very well.

I’m not a parent myself, so I can only guess at how difficult the job must be.  But I think about how easily overwhelmed with emotion I can get, how hard it is for me to process it healthily, how quick I am to lash out in words in anger and frustration within my marriage, only to regret it later.  Add that to the constancy that parenting requires, the 24/7 nature of the job, and the responsibility of being the grown-up, the role model.  I don’t know that I would handle it very well myself, and I can empathize with my parents in a way I couldn’t when I was younger.

Yet it is still important for me to declare its impact on me, the fact that I was ill-served by their reaction, no matter how understandable their mistakes were.  I am writing about it because I want to be done with it and move on, and unequivocally stating that this was not right seems to be the way to do it.  (My friends who have heard this story of woe multiple times will likely be happy if it works!)

I think of the things that I write about here and shield from my parents’ eyes and I have avoided naming them outright for decades because deep down, I was afraid they were right.  I am afraid to discuss issues of growing up and creativity and food and eating and weight because I am afraid that they will say, “You know, we were right.  You were a hideous child and a terrible writer and we were right to shame you for your body and force you to diet and march up and down the driveway for exercise and we only regret that you grew up to be even uglier, disgusting, and have disappointed us in every way possible.”

It’s rather liberating to write that out – I had to laugh, because our relationship has changed enough over the years that I know that they wouldn’t say that.  And I don’t even think they think it.  But what I have finally come to recognize is that as much as it would hurt, I could live with it even if they did think every single one of those things or worse.  Because I don’t believe those words anymore.  I’m just Claudia, living my life the best I know how, and I don’t have anything to be ashamed of.  So while I can finally admit that my parents fucked up without making excuses for them, I can forgive them and love them still.  And I write.

(Just an FYI – I’ll be offline until Thursday, so any comments that need moderation will be stuck until then.)


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Fat is easy, acceptance is hard

I have been at least lurking if not participating in the fat acceptance community for so long that I can forget how un-mainstream the idea of not wanting to lose weight can be. I received a lovely email from a reader the other day cheering me on and wishing me happiness and success, including in losing weight.  I was so pleased at her kindness that I had to do a double take and realized, wow, I’m not communicating myself very well if it sounds like I’m unhappy being the size I am.

So for spelling it out loud, my name is Claudia, I’m fat, I don’t diet, and I don’t hate myself for being fat.

As difficult as it was growing up with the stigmatizing messages I got from my family and those around me, I’m grateful that my voyage to fat acceptance has been pretty smooth sailing, all things considered.

After all of the diets I’d been put on as a kid, I picked up the mantle myself my senior year of high school, and went on the most restrictive diet I’ve ever been on.  I was eating far under 1000 calories a day, weighing myself three times a day, and exercising at top speed at least an hour a day, if not more.  Such drastic behavior would better be described as disordered eating, but as the weight came off, I got accolades instead of concern.  I was a straight-A student at the top of my class, but everyone looked at me as if dropping those dress sizes was somehow my greatest achievement.

(I remember two lone voices of dissent at the time.  We had to keep a food journal for a short time in biology class and my teacher told me that I needed to be eating more – not something I wanted to hear at the time.  My brother also told me that counting fat grams was going to make me boring, which now makes me laugh with its truth.)

Of course, you all know how the story ends.  The work it took to maintain the loss and try for more became untenable.  I was buzzing on the adrenaline of righteous hunger and the banishment of my old self, and couldn’t bear a single break in the wall I’d built up to protect myself from being who I used to be.  I remember my father bringing home sandwiches for dinner, and my plain veggie sub had oil and mayonnaise against my strict instructions for bare bread.  I remember sobbing and screaming that he was trying to sabotage me – clearly, I wasn’t in any kind of sustainable state.

So when I couldn’t do it anymore, the weight came back.  Again, not an unusual story, but I was lucky in that I only had a few more minor dieting attempts before I realized that this just wasn’t any way to live my life.  Now I’ve been about the same size for about 15 years, and I feel as if I’ve reached a state of true acceptance around my body.  My body is me, I am my body – I live in it every day, and I try to live the best life I can, just like everyone else.  Giving up the Sisyphean task of dieting and self-hatred feels great, even if it means that my body doesn’t look the way I used to think it had to in order to be happy.

What occurs to me now, though, is how much trouble I have with acceptance in just about every other aspect of my life.  I am impatient at small inconveniences, rage against my life not being exactly the way I think it should be, think that if I just protest enough, life won’t be what it is. I may not feel inferior for being fat, but I’ll feel inferior for being over-educated and under-employed, for being raised in a blue-collar town in a family without much money, for being in my mid-30s without owning a house or having the picture-perfect marriage, for having recurring depression, for being somewhat unfocused and unclear about what to do with my life.

So now that I’ve accepted being fat, maybe it’s time to start accepting the rest of me.


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The story of my sexual assault

This is an account of one of the times I was sexually assaulted, about fifteen years ago.  I wrote this about seven years ago, when it was still a lot fresher, but even though time has made the pain dimmer, it hasn’t disappeared.  I plan to write more concretely about the relationship between fat stigma and abuse, but for now I want to put the story out in its entirety so I can refer to it in future posts.

(If it’s not obvious from the intro, serious trigger warnings for sexual violence.)




He tied me to my bed with the purple chenille belt from my bathrobe. Funny – seven years later I no longer have the bathrobe, but the belt is still stuffed away in some spare dresser drawer and it surprises me every time I find it. I always mean to throw it away, but I haven’t yet. I am a packrat, from a long line of hoarders, and I hold on to everything.

He told me to raise my arms flat on the bed above my head, as I lay on my back on the college dorm issue extra long twin bed. He secured my hands together, twisting the belt between my wrists, and tied the remaining length of belt to the metal legs of the bed frame. We had only met in person 24 hours ago.

In my junior year of college, when we met, no one scanned pictures of themselves to send through email and there was no instant messenger, so we exchanged email and spoke on the phone and I sent a picture of myself through the mail, not really thinking about how I wouldn’t get it back. It was a picture of me during senior year of high school and I was posing with my godfather; when Steve called me to tell me he received it he said, “you’re beautiful, but who’s the ugly guy?” I agreed to have him come visit me at my dorm room anyway. No one was calling me beautiful anymore.

How long did we talk before he came to visit? A week? Maybe two? I don’t remember (this is such a litany for me: I don’t remember, I don’t remember, and I don’t, so little of it is accessible for me) but it was certainly no longer than two weeks. Jeff, whom I’d loved for years with that fierce stabbing first-boyfriend-love, Jeff who told me he wanted to marry me, had left me for a woman he met online just months earlier; did I unconsciously decide to do the same? All I remember is the grasping, sucking depth of my loneliness, and my desperate attempts to do anything I could to quell the pain for even an instant. Anything not to think about Jeff and how utterly alone he left me.

Today I can’t remember a thing about Steve, although one day the next year, a man in my math class wore the same cologne and I instantly felt sick to my stomach to smell it. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the scent of that cologne. But I don’t remember why I wanted to meet him. I don’t recall witty conversations, that flush of excitement and warmth that grows in my belly and flushes my cheeks from flirtation, like drinking wine. I don’t remember a meeting of the minds, or even much laughter. I don’t know if I could pick him out of a lineup, or recognize his voice. He is anonymous to me; I am only left with the memory of what he did.

He wanted me. He told me in emails and phone calls that he loved me, he told me he wanted me, and I thought that was enough, so I agreed to have him come for a visit. I remember how nervous I was, plucking at my clothes, fixing my makeup with shaky hands, all as I awaited for him to come. Someone wants me again, I thought, someone else has seen the good in me and wants to be with me.

Not even 20 minutes after he arrived I found myself on my knees on the floor in front of him, my head between his spread legs, his pants unbuckled, between his knees. I remember paying attention to his pants and belt and underwear all bundled between his knees as he held my head in place and repeated not one drop, drink it all, don’t you dare spill one drop and the penalty if I spilled was left unsaid but he wanted me, don’t you understand? He wanted me, I didn’t know him, and we were alone.

Later, in my room, on my narrow bed, he laid next to me, fully dressed, while I was almost nude. I wore only a pair of panties – black cotton, patterned with red roses, my favorite pair – and he stared at me with rich brown eyes. Jeff had had blue eyes, and I enjoyed the difference of Steve’s, the warmth of his brown – it gave me hope that this was what my brown eyes looked like from a lover’s gaze. He stroked my hair and spoke to me hypnotically as he told me he loved me. He told me I was beautiful, but only from the chest up. He couldn’t bring himself to touch me below the breasts – he told me this – but he loved me nonetheless and my touching him would be enough, right? I reeled in pain at his aversion yet I looked at myself with the same revulsion I saw in his eyes, so why should I expect any better than this? I was starving and he was offering me the illusion of nourishment.

My hands were tied to the bed frame as he fixed the blindfold around my eyes, but not before he made sure I saw the tip of a sewing needle, as he burned it in a candle flame, and the anticipation cold in his eyes. The room was romantic, candles lit and lights low; how I had always imagined I would set it up for Jeff. I waited, rigid and terrified and paralyzed; I had given my trust away so freely. I waited and I listened to the Sarah McLachlan CD that he put on the stereo – I had never heard her before and her voice was lovely. I was enchanted as I listened to her sing and I will be the one, to hold you down… I’ll take your breath away and then I felt him push the needle into my nipple.

At that instant I finally knew what I wanted. I wanted him to stop. I didn’t care that I said I would try it, I wanted him to stop and I thrashed against my restraints and sobbed and pleaded and begged for him to stop, no more, just stop, yet he continued to push sharp silver into my resisting flesh with a lingering, taunting pace. Now I see that it was just what he wanted – my protests and pain – and of course he didn’t stop. Once the needle was firmly in place – I couldn’t see it, but I could imagine just what it looked like, this bar of thin metal perfectly centered, enveloped by my flesh – he flicked my swelling nipple so he could watch my tears flood from behind the blindfold, and he finally pulled it out with the same indifferent and casual leisure with which he pushed it in.

I don’t remember the rest of the weekend: what we talked about after, how I felt, when he left, what I did after. Did I feel empty and alone? Was I relieved? Was I numb? It is all an empty space for me except for my solitary burning shame.

I wish I could say that I never saw him again, or that I told him off, or that I stood up for myself. I wish I could say that I never again allowed myself to be hurt by cruel men in the guise of love and that it didn’t take me years to see what flimsy currency the words I love you can be and how cheaply I could be bought.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t thrown away that purple chenille belt yet. Maybe this is something I need to hold onto for a little longer.


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