Saturday, October 13, 2007

Doomed to dumpiness

AE most recent post mentioned about her feelings of being unconventional.

I can't remember a time when I felt conventional. Normal.

I rarely feel that I belong.

Most recently, on Thursday night in my dance class. I felt outside. The other women get together for purse parties and happy hours, sushi and dinner. And while I was invited to the purse party, I couldn't go - my family needed me.

And when I dance, I feel like the fattest one there. Wait, that's because I AM the fattest one in class.

I feel short and dumpy next to the tall and elegant and the petite and adorable.

Short and dumpy. It's how I've felt my entire life. Even next to people who are my own height.

I feel like I always say the wrong thing. It seems like I'm the only one who farts, the only one who can't do certain moves, the only one afraid.

And it only is magnified in class. Maybe because in the level that I'm in (6 and last) we work on solo routines. so instead of being able to fade into the crowd, I'm in the spotlight. And the spotlight burns.

Last Thursday, I watched most of the other women's routines. All of them were beautiful. Some more so than others, but all seemed to move smoother than me.

When I danced, my thighs skidded down the pole (making a completely embarrassing noise) instead of gently (silently) sliding down. I plopped onto the ground instead of gracefully landing softly. After taking my t-shirt off, my camisole rode up and the top of my shorty shorts flipped down a bit revealing my bulbous belly.

In short, instead of feeling beautiful and elegant dancing around the pole to "Have you really ever loved a woman" by Bryan Adams, I felt like a herd of elephants plowing into the pole.

All through my routine, I heard murmuring from my classmates. Only once did I hear what they said. It was while I was taking off my T-shirt or maybe my outside pair of shorts. It was something like, "We love that about her." (meaning the fact that I'm usually the first one to strip.)

When I finished my routine, my classmates all applauded (some even pounded the floor.) A few told me that my routine was awesome.

So why do I think that they are lying to me in the "let's make the fat girl feel good about herself" way?

Ugh. And I had been so "good" the last few nights - not having dessert if I wasn't really hungry and here I sit tonight with ice cream curdling in my tummy. Okay, so it was a serving size portion with a little trailmix cereal and some whipped cream on top. Hardly anything that will break the bank, but still. I can't stand that I succombed when I wasn't really hungry.

So what's really going on? Why am I focusing on food? Why am I berating my body?

I'm nervous about performing my routine in front of my class on Thursday and then in front of my husband (and lots of other spouses and invited guests) at the recital on Friday.

I'm scared that my husband will take seeing my routine as an invitation to things that I'm not ready for. Especially after the month that I've had (and am still having.)

Life has gotten in the way of my dealing with my issues. Specifically the ones I have with intimacy. I've had a month's reprieve, so to speak, and now, my husband is giving me signals... Signals that i'm not ready for. Signals that I don't want him to give. Not now.

I feel so fat. So ugly. So disgusting. I wish... I wish I knew how to throw up the ice cream I ate.

I have to say. I love my apartment. We're on the third floor and have an awesome view of fireworks. There's an amazing show going on tonight - in October no less!

But, it's bedtime for my son (and me.) May you all have sweet dreams!

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

Protecting the father

A few of you brought up the fact that I am the gatekeeper. I am the keymaster. I am the keeper of the keys. I can tell my dad if I want to. This is my story to tell to whomever I need.

But I don't want to tell my dad. I want to protect him. He's been through so much the past few years - his mom (and close friend) suffering (and dying) from cancer; his father spewing venom at him constantly (blaming my dad for every bad decision my grandpa has made.)

But then there is a part of me that wants him to know - who wants everyone to know.

But then, telling him doesn't mean that it will be out in the open. Telling my mom and oldest brother (JJ) proves that.

So I've set a realistic expectation. My mom knows. My other brother knows.

For now, that's good enough.

And if my dad brings up brother, Tom, and it bothers me, I can say something then. I reserve that right.

And it is my right. One that I'm choosing not to exercise, right now.

It's okay.

I don't need to tell him right now. I'm sleeping better (perhaps because I'm exhausted dealing with other things, but still.) I am still managing my ED well - not restricting, not overexercising, not stuffing myself beyond full.

I'm okay.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Am I ready yet???

I'm not sure.

I'm not sure if I'm ready to talk about the conversation with my mom. I've had to bury it and keep it buried for so long now, it seems like it isn't worth the effort.

But then, I think, "Jeanne, if you don't, it will bite you on the ass someday. You know it will. You have to close the circle to close the door on this event."

So, here we go...

My parents arrived on Friday night. I waited until Sunday to bring up the subject. My parents and I took my son to his elementary school's playground and as my dad and Jack were playing, my mom and I sat on a bench to watch.

I don't remember exactly what I said - I know it was similar to what I had rehearsed.

My mom was stunned.

She asked a few times when it happened, who was in the house, etc. Understandly, she felt guilt and worry that this bad thing happened to her daughter on her watch. I tried to reassure her that there wasn't anything she could have done, even if it did happen when she was downstairs.

I explained what I did remember. I explained that this is why I reacted the way I did when she brought up my brother and his family visiting around the fourth of July next summer. I explained that I am still angry and will be for a long time. That I don't want to hear about Tom, I could care friggin' less about what happens to him.

I told her that I needed her to know, but that I was leaving it up to her to decide how much (or if) dad could handle.

I felt relieved after telling her.

afterwards, my mom, the woman who rolled her eyes when I told her that I was dancing with a pole, let me show her a few of my spins and even teach her how to do the Fireman.


Later on, when my mom and I had run into the grocery store for something (I can't remember what now,) she told me that she decided not to tell my dad anything. "It happened so long ago, not to minimize what happened. And while you had to tell someone, I don't think he needs to know. And besides, he did apologize." (or something to that effect.)

I agreed, reluctantly. It's my mom that I talk to every week (or so.) It's my mom that would have brought up my brother to me. I don't talk to my dad very often and usually, when I do, it's about pictures or cooking or something. And I figured I could always tell Dad myself later, if I didn't feel better (meaning if my dreams continued to disturb my sleep, or if my ED got worse...)

I have to say that I was (and am) angry that my mom minimized what happened to me. (Anytime anyone says, "Not to minimize it," s/he IS minimizing it.) I think I understand why she did it - it's my mom's M.O. really. Minimize or ignore it and it will cease to exist. Brush the crumbs under the rug, shove the clutter into the closet, close the door on the pigsty. Her hiding imperfections has always annoyed me.

And I'm angry that she is accepting his (my brother's) apology. As if saying, "I'm sorry" somehow heals the wounds in an instant - the twenty years of pain that I've survived. The twenty years of self-loathing. The twenty long years of punishment I sentenced myself to, thinking I was the one who did wrong.

Forgive me, but "I'm sorry" doesn't slice the marmalade in my book.

So, where do I go from here?

At some point, I want to see John (my therapist.) If nothing else, to close the circle there.

After all this, I feel fat. And ugly. And not being able to workout, dance and walk as normal the past three weeks hasn't helped me feel lean and beautiful either. And neither has my "binges." (Definition of binge for me is eating whatever I want (usually sweets or nuts or breads) until full. I'm working on realizing that that isn't a binge, even if I "feel" disgusting aftewards.)

And I realize that all of that means that I'm depressed. And only part of it is due to repressing feelings around the conversation I had with my mom. And much of it has to do with why I had to repress my feelings. (Feel free to email me at diggingmeup at gmail dot com for details that I'm not able to share here.)

Well, that's all for now.

Thinking of everyone here on the culdy...