"Keep going," she says, insistently, "Come on, Syl." I am sweating profusely, gritting my teeth. My legs are extended in the air, scissoring back and forth. "One more set." I used to be able to do this. "Fifteen (pause)...fourteen..." I can feel it coming. "Twelve...eleven..."

I collapse.

"Sorry," I say, throwing my forearm across my eyes. I shake my head. "Sorry." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her, looking at me blankly, masking some feeling I can't zone in on. Disgust? Pity? Disappointment?

Or is that what I'm feeling?

Weak. I am weak. I hate myself. I am a fucking loser.

"I. Am. So. ANGRY." I say to her.

I see the change, the click back into professional trainer/motivator mode. "You've got to give yourself a break," she says. "You haven't been exercising in a while. This is just a benchmark. You'll get there."

I pay her money to tell me this. I pay her money to tell me this because I can't do it or make myself believe it on my own. I need to pay someone to believe in me, or at least to pretend they do. This is what it's come down to.

I have realized this week, this holiday week, that I'm not as fine as I've been thinking I am. I have realized this week that I while I may have been feeling like things are on the upswing, as soon as my support systems are cut off, it's only a few days before...

I have set up regular appointments to receive support to meet a variety of my needs; to fill a number of areas that are empty. This is, apparently, what I've been holding on to. Like a little kid on one of those suspended iron ladder monkey bar things, I have been swinging from rung to rung, hand over hand, knowing that sure, it sucks being suspended out into nothing, but when I reach out, on Monday, I'm seeing this person, and on Tuesday, attending that group, and on Wednesday, talking to that person, and on Thursday, I might have a chance to connect for an hour or two with that person...

I'm going from rung to rung. I thought this made me strong. I thought I was getting across.

I didn't realize it as it happened, but each of these "rungs" I cling to the thought of grabbing each week decided to shut down and go away for the holiday this week. As they told me they'd be gone, I cheerfully said, "No problem. I'm good. I'll be fine; really." I really thought I would be. I thought I was strong. Not like before. Maybe not at my peak conditioning, but strong enough, at least, to hang it out while they temporarily removed the rungs. I could make it until they got back.

But no, now I find it's not what I thought it would be like. I find it feels like I'm back where I started, twisting in the wind, hanging there and trying to look like I'm cool; like I'm not about to fall. Looking at the one rung all the way down there, way out of arm's reach, and wondering how the hell I'm going to get myself there. Knowing I have to reach longer, use my arm strength to swing farther out. Or at least hang on until someone comes back and helps me grab on. But my weight seems heavier again, like even my physical lightness is leaving me, and it's pulling me down, down, down, every second. And it's starting to hurt. My muscles are starting to strain. And some old, familiar place in the back of my mind is saying, "Let go...let go...you'll have to eventually, anyway...you've never had the upper arm strength for this...never...and you never will. You knew eventually you'd end up here again, didn't you?"

And I'm stunned at how little it takes. How wrong I was in assessing my capabilities. How little endurance I have. And I'm ashamed at how my support system is so heavily based on payment, of one form or another. And I realize now if the money and the interest runs out, there's no one there. Again. And I'm still weak. And then how many weeks before I'm back where I started, with no muscle tone to speak of, no endurance at all? Did I really think I could fix this with a schedule? Did I really think keeping myself busy until I forgot it was there was going to work? Did I really think I could pay it to go away?

I can feel the sweat building, my arm muscles stretching, rack-like, as my body tries to pull itself downward. I squeeze my eyes shut. Substitute for the voice that isn't there with my own. "You've got to give yourself a break," I say. "This is just a benchmark. You'll get there."

I grip the metal. My hands are burning.

"I. Am. So. ANGRY," I say. Into the empty space. Which doesn't accept checks.

(photo credit: Monkey Bars by missjimmyjohn)

I have nothing profound to say on the topic, except that despite my obvious wondrousness (please read dripping sarcasm here), I appear to be a slave to it. I have moments when I start to feel good, even sure of myself, and then the tiniest thing can just pound that into dust in a split second. And then I'm back to fearing I am not and will never be enough to anyone. Including myself.

And I'm just fucking sick of it--the feeling and the pattern. Any tips? How can I poison the fucker and make it die?

I needed to write this headline to get over something. A fear. Call it one of my cheese suits.

I really want to do this before this year ends and the next one begins.

Before we begin, please look at this photo, what the person chose to name it, read the photographer's summary, and the comments that follow it. I wonder if you thought it was funny, or stupid, or cruel, or just nothing in particular.

For me, it was extremely painful. I feel a deep hurt--the kind of shaky anger and pain and fear and confusion that I can only equate with the feeling of betrayal. That's the closest I can come. How heartless, how without humanity. Look at the PLEASURE with which they go at it. The abject hatred for people they don't even KNOW. It...frightens me. It always has. I have grown to realize I have lived with a fear of this sad reality all my life, regardless of what my own body looked like.

I have wanted to write about body issues for a long time now, but I find each time I think of doing it, I don't know how to start, or what exactly I want to say. There is so much to say, and so much I want to avoid saying. I guess since there is no eloquent way to do this, the best way at this point is just to lay out some facts and then maybe they'll lead to something eventually.

Fact 1:
The thing that is on my mind, that I wanted to talk about today, is I'm now hovering on the line between fat and thin. I have not been on that line for a long time. More specifically, this balance is currently in the form of a number for me. Last week, I was on the brink of breaking the 200 pound mark. As in, one more pound, and the scale would have a "1" as the first figure of three, instead of a "2." It has been...at least two years (or more?) since I could say that.

Fact 2:
I was at one point while I was writing this blog, 248 lbs.

Fact 3:
I have been bothered since the start that I could not admit that when it was true. And that I knew then that if I ever did tell you that number, I would never do so until I was at a weight where I felt safe from the ridicule and scorn I assumed would come with such an admission (see photo link above). I don't know that I'm actually at that safe point now, yet, but I know I feel safer than I would have back then. I feel ashamed that I was ashamed to admit this. I think it was cowardly.

Fact 4:
It is harder for me to tell you about this than it was to talk about my sexual assault. I am more ashamed of being fat and of my body issues than I am of having been a rape victim. I think there is far more disgust and far less pity out there in the world for a fat woman than there is for a rape victim. (At the same time, I think my weight issues may be inextricably bound to my assault issues, but I am as of yet unsure of the exact connection.)

Fact 5:
I have never lied about my body type by saying I was thin, but I was never open about it either. I am certain this deliberate omission allowed people to envision an entirely different kind of woman when they read my writing. I suspect no one read my blog and imagined I was fat. I suspect they imagined an entirely different kind of woman, with an entirely different kind of body than one that was carrying around 248 pounds of weight around on it. I assumed, and continue to assume, that people do not want their image of a sexy, beautiful, mysterious blogger ruined and replaced with the harsh reality of an image of "a fat pig."

Fact 6:
This means, of course, I assume no one would assume if I were fat, that I could also be sexy, beautiful, and mysterious. That I could be anything beyond merely gross.

Fact 7:
I believe with certainty that I will lose readership because of this post. Particularly male readership.

Fact 8:

I can not talk to people about my weight without making a concerted effort to make them understand that "I was not always this way." That I was, at one time, and for a very long time, very thin. I suspect I do this because I think if they know this, it will somehow make them think not quite so little of me as they would if they assumed I have always embodied The Fat Person.

Fact 9:
There is a huge amount of shame I have about having become fat. About being fat. I don't want this to be true, that I feel shame about it, but it is true. I think people look at fat people and make assumptions about them, based solely on their bodies. Loser, sad, lazy, pathetic, slovenly, ugly, subhuman, animalistic (think of the nicknames: fat pig, fat cow, fat fucking bitch, ugly sow, fat ass--all animals).

Fact 10:
It fills me with anger that this is true. That people--and particularly men, but women, too--treat you differently when you are thin than when you are fat. And I know this to be true first-hand. It fills me with anger when I look at personal ads and see men--and I mean even FAT men---saying they only will consider someone "petite or 'fit.'" It also annoys the hell out of me that "fit" is the new euphemism for thin. If you're fat, you don't "fit." It fills me with anger when I hear someone say, "She has such a pretty face, what a shame..." about a woman who is overweight. It fills me with anger when EVERY SINGLE DAY I have to hear fat jokes in the media, and just out in the world--or just commentary on how one shouldn't be fat, how it's preferable to be thin. If you are not fat, you probably don't realize the constant barrage of it. Take a day to notice it carefully. Count it up. It's overwhelming. Some of these comments--if they were said about a race or a religion, people would be up in arms. Fat people are the one group no one even feels a begrudging need (even if only by fear or societal pressure) to show any respect to.

Fact 11:
Even as all this makes me angry, and even as there are many fat people who I love and respect, I often find myself deep down adopting these attitudes, in a once-removed kind of way. As in, I feel sorry for them that I know the world won't look at them as well as they should, because I assume that's the case. That I know many people might not find them attractive. And, much as I'm ashamed to say it, in the past I have sometimes wondered if when I am with a fat person in a social situation, if people think that says something about ME. As if the attitude about fat "rubs off" on the other people around the fat person. As a result, of course, I assume no one would want to be around me while I'm fat, because they wouldn't want my "fat vibes" ruining their mojo.

Fact 12:
I can't tell you how hard it is to have just written that. I can't imagine how pathetic and fucked up I must be coming off.

Fact 13:
Bringing us back to fact 1: I am now hovering. I have lost almost 50 lbs. I am just about to cross the line from plus-size clothing into regular clothing. Just about to cross the line from two-hundred-and-something to one-hundred-and something. And for some reason, I am fucking terrified. I had one pound to go last Thursday, and it was done. This week, I binge ate, so now I am five pounds heaver than I was last week. I just lied to you. I am seven pounds heavier. I actually thought lying by that two pounds would seem different somehow. This is how fucked up I am over this issue. Anyway, I have successfully moved myself away from the brink for one more week, it seems. Sabotaged myself. Whatever.

Fact 14:
Again, I am fucking terrified. I am terrified to be fat, and I am terrified to be thin again. When you are fat, no one sees you. When you are thin, everyone looks at you. But not at you. That's not what they're looking at.

Fact 15:
I feel like no one has ever really seen me in my entire life.

Fact 16:
People congratulate you on getting thin. This enrages me. People feel they have free reign to comment on your body as you lose weight, and especially when you're thin. Many days, I feel I never want to hear I'm beautiful again, unless it has nothing to do with my body. And yet, I crave knowing someone finds me physically beautiful. Because I suspect if they don't see me as beautiful outside, they won't even consider what's inside. I don't want to CARE if people think I'm beautiful. I don't want to CARE. I don't want to CARE. But I do.

Fact 17:
I often see myself as two separate women: fat girl and thin girl. Like they are different people. I guess because I get treated differently, I assume people see me differently, and it's somehow created this split in my own mind. Fat girl is all the things I'm not supposed to be, and all the negative things I am, and all the positive things that go unnoticed when I'm stereotypically beautiful. She's sad, and isolated, but authentic. Thin girl is perfect girl, the girl everyone wants, who can play the surface game really well. She's what the world wants. I'm afraid to lose fat girl. She's part of me. I don't want people to assume she's not there. I don't want people to know she's there somewhere and so not to want me, because she might show up again. Fat girl, while being painful to be her, doesn't have anything to prove anymore. She doesn't have to care what people think, because she already knows what they think--not much. Thin girl--she's the good girl, whose looks please everyone else. I don't want to be pretty to please everyone else. I don't want to be thin to please everyone else. And even if I get thin for me, people will do that--they will express their pleasure at the fact I am thin. I AM NOT GETTING THIN TO "FIT" IN. Or am I?

Fact 18:
I AM NOT GETTING THIN TO "FIT" IN. Or am I?
That is the scariest part. If I'm fat, I know I'm not doing it to fit in. If I'm thin...well...
I am getting thinner because I am getting healthier, finally treating my body nicely after a lot of abuse, and my body is responding. I am also getting thinner because when I look at photographs of me, I don't even know who that woman is. I don't recognize her. I want to know myself. That is my goal. But I know in so doing, it will also gain me certain other things. Acceptance, attraction, desire...love.
I wish someone had ended up loving me while I was fat. It would have proved to me the world isn't as full of fucking assholes as I now think it is. But no one did.
I look at those hundreds and hundreds of personal ads of men--even fat men--saying they'll only date a thin woman. And I know in a matter of months, I'll be able to write to them and they'll want to date me. And all I can think is, FUCK YOU.

---
Photo credit: DIY cosmetic surgery--a tummy tuck by jayjuice. It's a series; the whole set is great. See it here.

It is hard, some days, to not base my overall success or failure as a human being on my lack of having any shoulder to cry on, or arms to be held by, when the need arises. And by that I mean REAL shoulders, and REAL arms. I adore all you virtual people, but you all know it ain't the same thing. "Well, I have a great set of internet friends and lovers, so I'm no loser!"

And even if I were able to state that with no irony whatsoever, there simply is no substitute for touch when one needs comfort.

Anyway. In the interest of reaching out as I can and trying not to lambast myself for this being my only outlet, it's been kind of shit lately, and today I need a real, flesh-and-blood, compassionate human and I don't have one. Work sucks. I'm sick of it. I don't want to do it anymore. My attitude is now affecting things there; I am falling behind. I have a work project that I can't seem to even start much less finish and I suspect it is because the subject matter is too close to the bone and I can't handle it. I am overwhelmed, it's too much to take on, I feel too responsible. But now I've waited to long and it's too late to do anything about it and I'm screwed. And then today it got worse. My personal/social life is not evolving the way I want it to, either, or not at the speed I want it to, or some such. All connections with almost all people seem off; I feel like I will never fit anywhere or with anyone. The effort to keep trying seems entirely exhausting and futile. Each time I fail. I can't fall asleep, and yet all I seem to want to do is sleep. I've been saying I'm tired for two weeks straight now.

I know these things can turn around in only 24 hours and then everything seems different. It's happened to me lots of times. But damn, today just sucks and I want someone who cares to just hold me and tell me everything will be all right. And maybe just, you know, let me cry if I have to. Which I do.

And I hate, hate, hate that I just typed that I needed all that. Cash me in on some shame dividends, please.

So anyway, jesus, what fucking pathos. Let me get to the point. I'm posting this to ask you to help me out. Give me something to take my mind off it. Send me links to videos, music, anything absurd or entertaining. Tell me what you do on a day like this to keep you going. Tell me what you use to make you laugh or get your head right. No motivational-speaker-sounding crap, please. Just send me things that will amuse or delight (re-light?).

Today all I wish is that I could take my entire life to date and just crumple it up and toss away over my shoulder like a piece of paper.

I'm angry at everything. I'm angry at the influences that fucked with my brain and bent it into its current shape. I'm angry that I let my brain be fucked with. I'm angry that because of it all I now have no. fucking. clue. about. anything. Including my own self.

I'm angry that I gave up myself that fucking easily and let it disappear so completely that I don't even remember what it is anymore.

And I'm angry that I'm thinking all of this. That I'm back here for another visit. I'm angry that I can't think positive all the time.

Sometimes the thought of blogging can be a pain in the ass, but it does have one fucking amazingly positive aspect to it. And that's it's just ME, raw and uncensored. Always. No one can tell me to refine it or make it better or that I should do it a different way. Or to not talk. People can read or not, and it doesn't mean much; I can keep writing or not, as I please. No one can try strongarming me with threats of firing, financial loss, audience need, or witholding of affection to change the way I express myself or what I choose to say or do on this blog. It's all my choice, and I've deliberately made choices to this point about how to operate on this blog that would protect me from any such influences ruining my ability to speak and act on here exactly how I feel like.

Because sometimes it can feel like my whole life has been a series of situations where I'm being evaluated, and then being told I've done it wrong, or could have done it better. No matter how good I am, someone has to tweak it, or ask me why I didn't do it some other way that they think is better. I grew up with that shit, and then I ironically chose a career that's full of that shit. I've chosen relationships that were all about that shit. I've chosen a life full of my first effort never being fucking enough, never just fucking being appreciated for what's there.

I'm sick of always being evaluated for how close everything I do comes up to par. I'm sick of the sense that there even IS a fucking par. I'm a good person. I'm fucking TRYING. ALL. THE. TIME. Goddammit! Isn't that what's important? The effort, not the execution?

Well, I'm tired. And I'm not your fucking frilly boardwalk prize doll. Stop picking everything I do apart. Just fucking love me, accept me, or get the fuck out. And that declaration is addressed to myself as well.

On days like today, I look back at all the choices and steps I've made in my life and have to fight off a feeling of despair. Why would I have chosen some of the things I did, back when I did? And now, it's so hard to change some of it. For instance, let's say I suddenly realize I've chosen a career that reinforces the worst patterns in my life. The ones that revolve around fueling my negativity about myself. Well. A whole new career? What the fuck will I do and how can I afford THAT? And how about my friends? My relationships?

It's all so much fucking work. A whole life overhaul? Jesus. I've been working fucking hard enough as it is.

I just feel so angry at myself. I feel as if, if I'd been able to make better, smarter choices; if I'd been more impenetrable or more conscious of the forces around me, I wouldn't be in this place.

And there. There's the editorial shit again. As you see, it never stops. "Why the fuck did you choose that? Wipe that; make it better." If I don't choose someone else who will say it to me, I'll say it to myself.

Well, even if I do, at least here, no one can tell me I said it wrong. Or, I suppose they could, in comments. But no one can *make* me change what I wrote because they want me to give them something else. A better, more improved me...who isn't me at all. On here, you get whatever I'm giving out, no more, no less. It is what it is. And that's all it has to be.