Ok. So here is where it gets ugly. Not just sorta ugly either. But straight up, butt boonkie, Medusa-must-be-your-mama ugly.
So I took a coupla days to write out everything I ate. I mean EVERYthing. And the results were. . . um. . . how shall I put this. . . .horrifying?disgusting?shameful? None of those really fit. I'll put it to you like this. They were as bad as the Bush administration was incompetent. Yeah. Like that.
I wish I could say the horrors stopped there, but that would just be flat out lying.
I want to have a full out, no-holds-barred account of what the hell I've done to myself. So I took pictures. No, not those typical fat girl pictures that are only taken from the neck up. Not those bleary, indistinct internet chat room shots that are taken 2 miles away from the camera either. Oh NO! I took 'em up close and personal. In a sports bra and panties. After a meal. Where my atrophied abdominal muscles had no Hope of restraining the cushions of lard that decorate my mid section. I knew the results were going to be tough. But I had no idea just how vicious the truth could be.
If I were a weaker person, the sight of my burlap shaped body might have driven me to suicide.
I stared, horror stricken, at the massive tharm (an arm that is more thigh than arm) that hung from the soft, rounded cap of my shoulder. I looked on, disgusted, as an entire Goodyear Tire display circled my stomach and I realized that I was large enough to give birth to a small whale or an entire village of pygmies. I looked at my thighs and realized that dimples are only cute on dark haired, hard bodied Mario Lopez look alikes. They have absolutely NO sex appeal on the backs of thighs. I cringed at the orb of my bottom as it drooped somewhere down by the Florida Keys. And I started to cry.
But the more I gazed at the photos of a body that resembled a boot leg Botticelli portrait from Hell, the quieter my crying got. The longer I glared at the the colossal columns of fat that surrounded me, the less I felt like crying. As it dawned on me that every fold, jiggle, and waddle was a direct result of what I'd done to myself, my blood boiled fire hot. And I got MAD.
I got mad at me. I got mad at how I allowed myself to be presented to the world this way. I mean, who Does this to themselves? What person, with even a sliver of self esteem, would treat themselves so poorly? Not a Leogirl who knew what she was worth.
Now don't get this twisted. None of this has to do with what other people may (or may not) think of the suprfly Leogirl. It ain't about that at all. It's about the way that how we treat our bodies is a reflection of what we think of ourselves. It's about how worthy we believe we are of having our own needs met. How much we believe we deserve care, and love, and respect.
Looking at those pictures made me relize that I'd stopped caring about ME. This Leogirl had diappeared. I was chasing other things. I was running. And somewhere in this marathon of life, while I was busy trying to find people to love me (read: find me worthy and see how special I am), I'd forgotten to fall in love with myself.
So here I am searching. Trying to find something to fill up all that empty space inside. And food is always there. Like a cheap whore. Always willing. Always waiting.
But food can't fill those empty places inside. It can't drown out those vicious voices that keep whispering, "You're not good enough". It can't erase the little digs that burn like acid in those tender places of your soul. It can't be your friend or your lover or your savior.
Nope. Sorry kiddos. Life isn't like that. You see, for all of our seaching, the truth is the best friend/lover/savior you're ever gonna get is staring right at you in the mirror. It's the image that you see in every self portrait. It's the shadow that follows you everyday. It's You. Beautiful. Imperfect. Sassy. Insecure. Exquisitly Flawed. You.
You see, as I looked at the pictures, I saw a lot of things I wanted to change, but I saw a lot of things I liked too. Yeah, my arms are big, but they were strong enough to move a whole house when my husband abandoned me. My thighs are flabby, but they were strong enough to carry me six miles across the finish line of my first 10k. My ears are kinda big, but they never fail to capture the rhythm of my nephew's laughter. My mouth, ever so flawed with its overbite and cross bite, can speak languages, resolve problems, offer advice and kiss pain away. And my tummy, large and flabby, still makes a perfect landing spot for my nephew's head when he runs full speed into me for a hug.
These pictures are B.A.D. But they are also a starting point. A mirror of where I've fallen short and a bridge to what I could be. . . . . .
So I took a coupla days to write out everything I ate. I mean EVERYthing. And the results were. . . um. . . how shall I put this. . . .horrifying?disgusting?shameful? None of those really fit. I'll put it to you like this. They were as bad as the Bush administration was incompetent. Yeah. Like that.
I wish I could say the horrors stopped there, but that would just be flat out lying.
I want to have a full out, no-holds-barred account of what the hell I've done to myself. So I took pictures. No, not those typical fat girl pictures that are only taken from the neck up. Not those bleary, indistinct internet chat room shots that are taken 2 miles away from the camera either. Oh NO! I took 'em up close and personal. In a sports bra and panties. After a meal. Where my atrophied abdominal muscles had no Hope of restraining the cushions of lard that decorate my mid section. I knew the results were going to be tough. But I had no idea just how vicious the truth could be.
If I were a weaker person, the sight of my burlap shaped body might have driven me to suicide.
I stared, horror stricken, at the massive tharm (an arm that is more thigh than arm) that hung from the soft, rounded cap of my shoulder. I looked on, disgusted, as an entire Goodyear Tire display circled my stomach and I realized that I was large enough to give birth to a small whale or an entire village of pygmies. I looked at my thighs and realized that dimples are only cute on dark haired, hard bodied Mario Lopez look alikes. They have absolutely NO sex appeal on the backs of thighs. I cringed at the orb of my bottom as it drooped somewhere down by the Florida Keys. And I started to cry.
But the more I gazed at the photos of a body that resembled a boot leg Botticelli portrait from Hell, the quieter my crying got. The longer I glared at the the colossal columns of fat that surrounded me, the less I felt like crying. As it dawned on me that every fold, jiggle, and waddle was a direct result of what I'd done to myself, my blood boiled fire hot. And I got MAD.
I got mad at me. I got mad at how I allowed myself to be presented to the world this way. I mean, who Does this to themselves? What person, with even a sliver of self esteem, would treat themselves so poorly? Not a Leogirl who knew what she was worth.
Now don't get this twisted. None of this has to do with what other people may (or may not) think of the suprfly Leogirl. It ain't about that at all. It's about the way that how we treat our bodies is a reflection of what we think of ourselves. It's about how worthy we believe we are of having our own needs met. How much we believe we deserve care, and love, and respect.
Looking at those pictures made me relize that I'd stopped caring about ME. This Leogirl had diappeared. I was chasing other things. I was running. And somewhere in this marathon of life, while I was busy trying to find people to love me (read: find me worthy and see how special I am), I'd forgotten to fall in love with myself.
So here I am searching. Trying to find something to fill up all that empty space inside. And food is always there. Like a cheap whore. Always willing. Always waiting.
But food can't fill those empty places inside. It can't drown out those vicious voices that keep whispering, "You're not good enough". It can't erase the little digs that burn like acid in those tender places of your soul. It can't be your friend or your lover or your savior.
Nope. Sorry kiddos. Life isn't like that. You see, for all of our seaching, the truth is the best friend/lover/savior you're ever gonna get is staring right at you in the mirror. It's the image that you see in every self portrait. It's the shadow that follows you everyday. It's You. Beautiful. Imperfect. Sassy. Insecure. Exquisitly Flawed. You.
You see, as I looked at the pictures, I saw a lot of things I wanted to change, but I saw a lot of things I liked too. Yeah, my arms are big, but they were strong enough to move a whole house when my husband abandoned me. My thighs are flabby, but they were strong enough to carry me six miles across the finish line of my first 10k. My ears are kinda big, but they never fail to capture the rhythm of my nephew's laughter. My mouth, ever so flawed with its overbite and cross bite, can speak languages, resolve problems, offer advice and kiss pain away. And my tummy, large and flabby, still makes a perfect landing spot for my nephew's head when he runs full speed into me for a hug.
These pictures are B.A.D. But they are also a starting point. A mirror of where I've fallen short and a bridge to what I could be. . . . . .
If. . . . .
The possiblities are endless.
Pics Taken: 03/29/09 Weight: 211lbs Measurements: Waist (40"), Bust (43"), Hips (47"), Thigh (29"), Arm (15.5"), Gut (42.5")
