When I decided to start blogging and journeying into self-acceptance
and body positivity, I was really thinking on a superficial level. I wanted
other women who were like me – marginalized as fat moms and often overlooked,
undervalued, and left out – to know they weren’t alone. To give a voice to
women who could identify with breaking a chair at a PTA meeting and crying in dressing
rooms. I thought I was doing something deep – I really did. But I didn’t
realize how much work I would actually be doing on myself. In retrospect, wearing
short shorts and complaining about the lack of sizes available all seems trivial
when I look at where the thoughts and conversations on “body positivity” have
taken me.
Accepting myself is a journey I think I will be on forever.
I no longer think there will be some mountain top nirvana-like experience where
I feel 100% comfortable in my own skin and fully capable of defining who I am. Don’t
get me wrong, I am learning a tremendous amount about myself, but that looks so
different than what I thought it would a year ago. Looking at this as a perpetual
journey instead of one with an ending has changed so much…
The thing that has changed the most for me is the concept of
self-care. Once upon a time, I believed that self-care was time in the gym, leisurely
showers, nights out away from responsibility (re:kids), and pedicures. And if
that is what self-care looks like for you, THAT IS OK. I am not here to define
what is or isn’t ok for someone to do for themselves. Simply sharing my story…
For me, self-care has been 100% redefined. Perhaps because
for a year we lived in survival mode and everything in our lives was redefined,
so why not redefine self-care, too. Perhaps because I was attempting self-care
without listening to my own body or needs – I was doing what I thought was
supposed to work and what I had seen work for so many other people. I mean, a
long shower and a pedicure without kids for a few hours does sound pretty good,
right? But, for whatever reason, I felt like my attempts at self-care left me
further isolated from my loved ones, no happier with myself, and didn’t really
change anything. Getting away from the kids when I needed a break or going on a
date night were never bad – but I never came back feeling like my cup had been
refilled. I tried harder to make those breaks more meaningful or frequent, but
nothing worked to “refill” my cup.
My “cup” seemed to have a steady leak at half full. When
Jason left to work away, I was pouring double and triple out of a half empty
cup. In February, I found myself with nothing left to give. My cup was bone
dry. I had reached a point with my anxiety and rage that led me to a doctor’s
office. I was having heart palpitations with no physical exertion and couldn’t
sleep despite being exhausted all the time. I honestly went to the doctor for
the physical issues – the anxiety, I assumed, was secondary! But when he asked
what I was there for, I burst into tears. I cried out of humiliation. I had
gained weight. I was barely holding on. I felt like I was letting every person
I love down, while simultaneously resenting them for needing so much from me. And
my heart was inexplicably racing…
I rarely talk about the rage part of my anxiety because I am
ashamed of it. But as I sat in front of a doctor, terrified he would tell me
the answer to my problems would be found in weight loss and exercise (because
that has in fact happened – ask any fat person who has ever gone to a doctor) I
sobbed. I felt like I was broken. I mean, what loving and devoted parent bites their
tongue until it bleeds to keep from screaming at children? What kind of person
avoids story time and puzzles with bright and really awesome kids by scrubbing
a floor on their hands and knees? Who sits in a stupor from the minute they
wake up until bedtime creeps in, and then wonder where the day went.
Hi! Me. All that is me. In an anxiety riddled place where I
felt like I had completely lost control of my life, I did all of those things. And
now, I was in a doctor’s office, where I usually feel very unsafe emotionally,
divulging things to a male doctor that I had gone to simply on the
recommendation of my sister. It was really desperation defined.
Historically, I have used lots of different unhealthy coping
mechanisms to keep these anxious feelings quiet before they escalated to the
rage state. Not really treating the anxiety, but just appeasing and feeding it.
I would give it whatever it wanted just so I could function. I had restricted
food drastically. I ran as many painfully slow, short strided miles as my body
would allow. Obsessively weighed myself and “earned’ my meals through exercise.
On the flip side of that, I have also binged on foods that I once restricted
and spent entire days on the couch mindlessly watching TV simply to avoid thinking.
I’ve also obsessively cleaned my house and taken on, what I have lovingly named
“avoidance projects.” Which is my sweet way of saying extra work that keeps me
too busy to think. I honestly think my Master’s degree was an avoidance
project! My anxiety loves all these things. I love not being harassed by an inner
voice… It felt like a win-win!
Becoming a parent changed that. I could no longer spoil my
anxiety rotten and be the person I wanted to be for my kids. Learning how to
love and be loved meant I needed to be present and able to express genuine
emotion. Being a functional human – responsible for the wellbeing of other humans
- means I have to address my problems and sort out my shit. And that is really
hard and I DON’T WANNA DO IT. I had spent the last several years thinking I
outsmarted my anxiety. Thinking that simply recognizing that I have this issue
allows me to avoid it. I even managed to convince myself it wasn’t that bad…
Turns out, none of this works that way. You can’t avoid a
car accident in front of your house. You can’t ignore an elephant in your
living room. And you can’t avoid crippling anxiety living in your brain.
As I cried to this doctor, he heard me. And his response of,
“I can help you find a medication if you are open to that” was shocking to me.
In retrospect, my pearl clutching and being offended at the notion that I could
be confused for someone who *needed* medication is so hilarious I can only
imagine what this doctor thought! I am not sure if I was convinced my problems
weren’t bad enough to warrant medication. Or if I was under the assumption that
I could exercise enough endorphins into my system to combat the rage that is
symptomatic of my anxiety. Most likely, though, I thought I didn’t deserve that
much help. Any time I have contemplated if I needed medication, I would make a
strict “do all these things FIRST” list. Usually an intense wellness regiment
that included restricted foods and insane exercise, and if being religiously
dedicated to those things didn’t “fix” me, I would allow myself to talk to a
doctor. It was part of my avoidance cycle.
“Surely someone needs it more than me?” was my response. I
hope you are laughing at that, because I am! That was really what I said. I sat
there, hysterical with episodes of increased heart rate, teeth marks in my
bottom lip, and not sleeping in weeks, and I questioned this doctor… sounds
about right…
So, he proved to me I needed help. He asked me a series of
questions. Things like:
Did I feel like I was a burden? Yes Did I think my family would be better off without me? Absolutely
How often did I feel overwhelmed by daily tasks? Constantly
As I answered his questionnaires, I immediately wanted
relief. I wanted help. I wanted to feel like myself again. And if a pill would
help me do that, I was 100% on board.
Accepting medication for my anxiety was both the hardest and
easiest decision I have ever made. And
one I will never regret. I have always been an advocate for mental health treatment
in ANY form a person feels most comfortable with. Pills, crystals, strict
diets, aligning chakras – whatever works for you, do it! I would never hesitate
to tell people to go to wherever they could get help, tell someone you need
help, and go from there. I was especially an advocate about removing the stigma
around mental health medication –
For other people.
Until I was prescribed medication for myself, I didn’t
realize how much of a bias I held for treating mental health with
pharmaceuticals. Initially, I felt like accepting meds was the easy way out.
That I was somehow lazy for taking a pill instead of doing my list and ‘fixing’
myself. But, in treating myself, I have learned some big things -
My happiness is no less valid because a pill helps me get there.
My children have a mom who is loving and patient – and it
doesn’t matter to them that I take a pill every morning.
The to-do list that used to weigh me down, is simply done
now. Daily. I’m kickin’ ass and takin’ names!
The peace and moments of clarity I feel allow me to refill
my cup in a way no amount of exercise, binge eating, or sleeping ever did.
Now, I can enjoy a pedicure. I can go on a hike with my
family – even if there is laundry to do at home. I can make dinner – even if
the kids are being loud. I can sleep at night, and not be kept awake with
thoughts of how I am ruining every person I love.
Before I accepted that my problem was real enough for treatment,
I wasn’t as present for the joys in my life. I went through motions and was a
very convincing actress that I had it all together. Since beginning medication,
I find joy in the moments that my toddler climbs on my back and brushes my
hair. I see hope for my son and victory in his accomplishments. I know my oldest
daughter feels safe and more secure without a raging mom around. My husband has
a helpmeet again. I no longer see red when people have requests or needs
something from me. I don’t feel the weight of things I cannot change.
Most importantly, I can feel the tremendous love I am
surrounded with daily. I can feel the benefits of rest. I can feel proud of
what has been accomplished by the end of the day – even if the house is messy
and we had Little Ceasers for dinner. The hugs, sentiments, and laughter in our
home is genuine. It’s not all rainbows and butterflies – I am still a
homeschooling mom to 3 unique and high energy kids, trying to keep them safe, healthy,
and happy in a broken world. I am still a fat mom, who is judged by society and
assumed to be so many negative things. I am still a woman – and in this political
climate that is a loaded statement. Life will never be easy, but for the first
time in years, I feel like I can handle it.
I really hope if you find yourself in a place like I did –
trying to pour from a bone-dry cup – that you will seek whatever help you
believe in and find a solution. You deserve it. You really do – even if you can’t
see that right now.
p.s. I will get back to body positivity soon… There will be
more traditional self-care, redefining beauty, and feeling good about yourself
stuff. But, as evidenced by the almost 2,000 words before this, I had to get my
mind right! Thanks for being patient with me!
