Funny I can't believe it's been nearly 6 months since I posted, but given what's gone on these past 6 months, well, I totally get how I haven't been back here. Right now we're all in coronavirus lockdown. It's been an interesting adaptation to life, and now that we're a month in I can say I am determined NOT to get, or GAIN, the Covid-19. But that's a whole 'nother post. So let's get to this one, shall we?
UNPACKING. The emotional kind - all that baggage and boxes of whatever that has been slowing me down or suppressing my potential, the stuff I've been carrying around in my mind since, well, forever. I honestly thought I had done a pretty good job of working through it, really digging in and doing the work. I had a great therapist help, I sought out ways of letting go, and actually went through unpacking the mess and working through it and either tossing it or putting it away in a much more manageable way so that I can carry on with my life. For the most part, it is true that I did do a good job with this, and that's an important acknowledgement. But last night I got quite the surprise that I am still dragging a big heavy box with me.
DH ordered an entrée from our favorite Italian place, a takeout meal for us to split. One meal, two people. I put it all out a nice dish, divided in two, and we sat down at the table. I took my half and put it on my plate, and DH then divided what was left into two parts and put one of the parts on his plate. The entire entrée portion was definitely a two-person portion, but not a four-person portion. Or, that's what I thought. I looked down at my plate. My half-entrée looked like a normal portion of food, but watching DH take only half of what I had taken, well, no wonder I'm fat.
But I reasoned with myself. 'Liz, this is a NORMAL portion of food, and his is small, he's just eaten two granola bars, nuts and a banana, so don't worry. What you are eating is within your calories for the day. What he is eating is his choice. Now, bon Appetit.'
And I really, really tried to make that little voice of reason stick, as I wolfed down my delicious dinner. I was STARVING. I could have eaten the entire portion, and I said that out loud. And DH said "Well you ran this morning, no wonder you're hungry." So then I said "Are you going to eat the other half of yours?" and he said, "No, I just need half, it's a big piece."
My heart sank straight down through the floor and into the basement, as all of the air sucked out of the room. NO WONDER I'M FAT.
I pushed my chair from the table as I stood and picked up my empty plate, then dropped it into the kitchen sink on my way straight down the stairs. I thought I'd be able to pick up my broken heart, but instead I flopped down in the bean bag chair, me, my tears and soon the doggie. DH did nothing wrong, and here I was crying after what was supposed to be a nice fun quarantine date.
When he said what a big piece that was, it sparked the memory of every meal with my family telling me that I eat too much, no wonder I'm fat. And he did nothing of the sort, my feelings were not his fault at all. To him, he'd already eaten two granola bars, a banana and some nuts, so the dinner really was big for him. And I knew mine was a normal portion, a split entrée, and I had plenty of calories left for the day since I'd planned it in. Yet here I was, sobbing in the basement while my sweet doggie pawed at me and told me in his silent doggie way that he loved me no matter what, and that he didn't want me to be sad. I didn't want to be sad either. I told him I'd take him for a walk.
DH came downstairs to ask what was wrong. I told him it was nothing he had done, and I was sorry but every time someone said something like he did, when I was a kid, that the next line was "No wonder you're fat." I told him I know that's my problem, he didn't do anything wrong, and I was sorry I wasn't past that. I told him I wanted to go for a walk and I'd take the dog. I tried to give the doggie ear drops before we left, but he wasn't having it and I didn't have the patience, so I just left. And I walked around my neighborhood, 2 miles in the dark, by myself. No phone, no ID, no nothing. Just me and my jacket and my broken heart.
I truly wish this were not still a thing with me - that there wasn't this food shame that just shows up and wrecks nice nights. I don't know how to unpack this bag. I walked around with it last night and cried about it outside, in the middle of my city neighborhood where absolutely no one else was walking and where if anything had happened to me, there would be no way to ID my body and DH would have to call the morgues to find me. I was utterly alone, and I was happy for it.
I know that I need to love myself before anyone else can. I know I need to find out how to unpack this, but I just don't know how to do that. I thought I had done it, but clearly it is still with me. I have nightmares where my nephew says he doesn't want to hang out with me because I'm fat, where my brother says he doesn't want me to come on the boat because I'm fat, where I'm invited to a boat picnic and my sister-in-law shows up all tanned and chiseled and topless with her perfect body and her two kids (that I never got to have, because I'm fat) on her hip, and everyone pretends it's ok that I'm there too because I'm the sister so even though I'm fat they make an exception. How the hell do you get rid of this stuff that shows up LIKE THIS in your subconscious?
I don't know. But I can be aware of it and not stuff it down with food or alcohol. I'm happy I walked last night and cried my heart out about it all along 17th Avenue Parkway. I'm happy that I came back and made myself *A* bourbon drink, as I had planned, as was in my calories for the day. I'm happy that I was able to say to DH this morning that I was sorry I had ruined our nice night, and that I am sorry I still don't know how to get past this thing.
So there it is. I can see it. I can see I need to unpack it. And I can see that I don't know how. But on the bright side, I do love a challenge. So. Here we go.
