Tag: addiction

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A Note on Perfectionism and Belly Fat

“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!

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Jasmine Will Make It Smell Sexy

You know that scene in Dune? The hand-in-the-box scene? The main character feels a call to something bigger, something truer. He must be vetted, he must suffer to prove the sturdiness of his soul, to solidify his calling. If he removes his hand from the box, he will die.

If he endures, he becomes.

“What’s in the box?” He asks.

“Pain.” She informs him.

There is a collective hand-in-the-box experience (experiment?) taking place right now. As the unwind from Covid, 2020, and maybe the last 10,000 years continues, we’re reckoning with identities, beliefs, relationships, and spaces that no longer feel supportive. Up ahead, we see a life that feels truer. The closer we get, the clearer the mirage becomes.

What must we endure to get there? 

Who must we disappoint?

What must we unlearn?

How must our priorities change? How must we realign?

I know someone whose husband is dying from cancer. This human is the brightest star in the sky, truly. If anyone can manage a hand-in-the-box moment it’s her. And still…he’s dying. Which means significant parts of her are dying, too. This human loves plants and gardens, and she oozes confident, sensual beauty. So naturally I thought of her when I saw the jasmine plants at Trader Joe’s last week.

In the card, I wrote something about how, since we are to endure death, it ought to smell sexy. 

If we have to be here now, then this pink, vining plant could serve as a gracious gift planted along the path on which we all walk each other home. Her husband is close to being home. She is there with him.

Growing up my grandma had a large fence with an even larger jasmine engulfing it. Her sprawling garden near the Pacific felt like a jungle with a canopy of sycamore and avocado trees. She was not a delight, but her mid-century home in Malibu was. She’d pick me up from elementary school on the days my parents couldn’t, which was a regular occurrence given the fact that they were often managing my dying younger sister.

I’d bury my face in the shiny, green tangles and inhale as deeply as my grieved lungs could. My entire world disappeared inside the blossoms, and for a couple of minutes I had everything a little girl needed. A daddy who didn’t leave. A mom who didn’t hit or yell or shame. A sister who didn’t cry out in agony when they missed the vein again. A body that fit all the societal norms. A heart that felt seen and known and loved.

The jasmine wafting through the salty, warm air made the pain of the trials much more manageable.

I believe and sense and even see a day ahead when we get to exhale and finally remove our appendage from this goodhardgood device. On a personal level, that day feels sooner rather than later. There are exciting opportunities ahead for me. There are lessons I’ve spent the last twelve months learning to integrate. 

I’ve had many moments when yanking my hand out and away felt so tempting! I almost did it, I almost went back there!? In recovery circles, we’d call that a relapse. I almost abandoned myself! I almost forgot about where I was headed, and momentarily took my eyes off the horizon.

How human of me, to desire something familiar, something easier.

Do you know what the witch in Dune is testing? “We sift through people to find the humans.”

“A human can override any nerve in the body,” she explains.

A human can choose to shove their face in a jasmine vine. A human can text a friend and ask for help. A human can drive 3 hours just to watch a killer sunset. A human can feel any feeling with the help of a sturdy, free, and humble mind. A human can allow any moment, any lesson, and any failure to fuel growth, resilience, stamina, and heart, instead of feeding our shame.

I bought a jasmine for myself, too. Obviously. My I Don’t Wanna friend texted me to let me know that they were back in stock.

I’ll buy one for you if you want. I’ll write you a note that says something like:

Hi. I love you. I’ll be a human here with you. Jasmine will make it smell sexy.

-C