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Man. One week into my diet and I’m struggling.
Fuck, I’m not supposed to call it a diet.
It’s a “healthy eating initiative” in which I have no desire to change my body, because I already love myself regardless of the way I look.
Right? Did that sound better?
2017 (and….really…the past several years) have been really fucking cool, as far as body positivity. There are so many incredible role models coming forward for both men and women, like Megan (BodyPosiPanda), January Harshe and Constance Hall.
INCREDIBLE women. BRAVE women. Women that have done SO much for…well…the entire fucking world, really.
They are battling. They are at the front lines, telling dickheads and douchebags alike where to stick their shitty opinions and closed minds.
They pose in their undies. They flash their cellulite. They dance it the fuck out, and get that jiggle wave going.
They do all of that to show us that our bodies aren’t something to be ashamed of.
They do all of that to show us that we aren’t “gross”. We aren’t “freaks” or “disgusting” or “ugly”.
We are just…people. Just fucking normal people with bodies and stories and feelings and lives. Humility.
I just…I love it.
I have so much respect for them, for that courage and for that message.
I have so much appreciation for the path that they’re paving but…I still feel shame. I feel shame because I don’t love myself. I haven’t found that peace, that they have. I haven’t accepted that message, for myself.
I think I’m a good person. Actually…I think I’m a great person.
Like…if I wasn’t me, I would want to be friends with me.
I’m romantic and supportive. I bake some killer chocolate donuts. I tell dumb jokes that sometimes make people smile. I have good boobs and pretty eyes and my eyebrow-drawing skills are second to none.
I’m loyal, I’m good at puzzles, and I will always tell you the truth (just sugar coated enough to make it bearable).
Yet..still. No love.
Looking in the mirror is hard for me. The cellulite on my thighs makes me cringe and the idea of being in a bathing suit causes days worth of anxiety. I’m not comfortable in most of my clothing and tug at my tshirt if it touches my mummy-tummy.
I avoid looking at my reflection in windows, I wear 2 pairs of spanx (TWO) anytime it’s not appropriate for me to wear a gigantic hoodie or jacket.
I doubt myself.
I doubt compliments from my husband. I doubt my reactions to situations. I doubt my voice, and it’s validity to the world.
You see…life hasn’t always been so easy on me.
I’ve survived bullying. Horrendous, hide-away, suicide thoughts type of bullying. I’ve been called fat, ugly, worthless.
I’ve been told I’m not enough. Not talented enough, not small enough, not pretty enough.
I have survived abuse. Physical, emotional, sexual.
I have been cheated on, dumped, heartbroken and humiliated.
I have survived.
That in itself…is pretty fucking incredible.
I have gone through ALL of that shit. I weathered it like a champ!
I coped the best that I could. I found peace where I was able and let the rest go, enough to keep truckin’. Sometimes I ate for comfort, sometimes I ate for celebration. I learned and I grieved and I burned bridges, built bridges, flew the fuck over bridges.
And though I’m not where I want to be yet, I’m learning to appreciate the journey and the point I’m at in it. My strength, my kick-assedness, if you will.
I’m learning that the whole idea behind what those incredible women are doing and saying is…not to compare.
Not to compare to the 90 pound model in the magazine.
Not to compare to my mother in law.
And not to compare to them. The “bopo queens”.
Here I am.
Telling you. ALL of you, in the middle of your “self love” journey…that I’m right there with you.
That I feel shame. Shame for my downfalls and my failures. Shame that I’m not always the person that I want to be, and shame that I don’t love myself as much as I “should”.
But I also feel pride. Pride for all that I have survived. Pride for the lessons that I have taken out of shitty situations. And pride for the acknowledgement that I’m giving myself for being on my way towards where I want to be.
Hats off to US, babes. We are alive, and kickin’ and we still give a shit… despite everything that has fought for the opposite.
We ROCK, no matter what point we’re at in our adventure towards being comfy with our pudgy bellies out.