“He grabbed my belly fat and then he shook it.”
The look on my therapist’s face validated my internal experience. At the age of about ten, my grandfather grabbed the flabby flesh hanging off my belly and jostled it back and forth. He was shaming me for having such a visible flaw. The flaw of fatness, weakness, lack of self-control and determination. For having the flaw of imperfection.
I was ten, with a sister dying of pediatric brain cancer at home.
I was ten, and only three years earlier learned that I was the product of an affair. “Daddy isn’t your real Daddy.”
I was ten, and my mom used belts on our bottoms.
I was ten, and terrified. Food was a comfort, and it showed. Yes, I was born large—over ten pounds and 20+ inches long. By sixth grade I was nearly six-feet tall and wore a women’s 12 pant and shoe size. And, I loved cheese.
It’s called a pannus, the “abnormal” apron of skin that hangs off the abdomen. I had one. I hated it. My fatness kept me from so much, which was—perhaps—the point. A buffer from the world and wounded authority figures that raised me.
I was sure it would keep me alone forever. Alone—where neither the pain, nor the love, could reach me.
Something happened that day, standing on the concrete steps in front of my grandparents home. Their land overlooked the Pacific, and we had just hiked through the hills of Topanga. I was hot and red-faced. He was strong and healthy and full of rage, a different kind of red.
I know he only wanted what he thought was best for me. He wanted me to be acceptable, statuesque, and beautiful, the way all the Estonian women back home were. He wanted me to be strong and resilient, the way he had to be when the Nazi’s encroached, forcing his family to flee in the night.
I don’t doubt that he loved, and loves me. I just can’t believe he grabbed my belly fat. With all the other shit I was holding, why couldn’t it just have been a hug? Why couldn’t it just have been a Hansen’s soda on the porch watching the sunset over Santa Monica?
I must be perfect.
If I want the belts to go away, I must be better.
If I want my dad to stay, I must perform dutifully.
If I want the world to accept me, I must…
…The world will never accept me. Not like this.
Cue two decades of crippling depression, anxiety, and chronic illness that ultimately landed me inpatient at Parker Valley Hope withdrawing in “The Shake Shack” from all the medicines doctors hoped (I hoped) would make me feel better. That was eleven years ago.
I believe I’ve hit my mid-life turning point. I know, I’m only 37. But people who’ve had cancer twice and a bone marrow transplant aren’t promised anything over 60.
For a long time, my inner perfectionist has kept me from moving through the anxiety and the stories related to my worth, beauty, capabilities, and purpose. I only get so far before I feel that freckly, big-knuckled hand on my belly again.
As this next thing unfolds before me, it’s requiring me to step more boldly in front of people who I perceive have power over me and my future. Publishers, booking agents, program directors, readers, audiences, etc.
Don’t let them see you. Don’t let them see this. If you show up as you are, it won’t be enough. You’re too big, too bubbly (or not bubbly enough). You’re not professional enough. You’re underqualified and ugly. You’re just…you. And you is no bueno.
I’m really tired of that story. And I’m really ready to step into this alignment. It’s terrifying, thinking about who will grab at the imperfect bits of my message, my purpose here. But if I stay put, I’ll die. I will die if I go another year not publishing the GoodHardGood stories. I will die if I stop talking about embodiment and somatic support in the recovery and cancer spaces.
So I guess I’ll just step out, onto the front porch. I’ll walk down the stairs, and away from the old man and the people who want me to feel shame. If I pivot toward the places that feel open and curious, maybe it won’t hurt so badly to be seen? Allowed? Invited? Welcomed? Valued? Dare I say—compensated?
I’ll head in the direction of the sunset –sherbet skies always help — a Spindrift in hand. I’ll let the warmth of the sun fuel my heart, my mind, my mission. I’d love to meet you there! Please don’t grab at the parts of me that make you feel uncomfortable. I love the way I jiggle.
I love that I’m alive! That I have made it this far!
Let’s go!
