Last week in therapy, I stopped breathing.
I didn't even realize it.
We were talking about why I think I'm stuck here at 300 (yes, I'm back to 300. Making it only 66 pounds lost this year.) We were going over the things that happened when I first hit this weight.
**
It was 2001. I had just graduated from college. The end of most people's higher education seems to take the shape of soaring crescendo. Mine looked like that pathetic "waaah-waaaaah" of a trumpet that signals ineptitude on a game show. It started looking pretty shaky when my heart was broken (and I mean smashed - and I mean, for years) around semester break, but I pushed through to March for my senior thesis, directing a one-act play by Madeleine George called The Most Massive Woman Wins. The four wonderful ladies in the cast kept me going, along with my roommate, tech director and all-around best friend, Matt.
But when that was over... well, what did I have left? No more theater. No love interest in my life. No clue what to do after school ended. And according to my senior audit, I had two more semesters of school left. Turns out when you're in two different colleges within one big university, they sometimes require 50 extra credits of you, even when you've otherwise fulfilled all of your degree requirements.
There was no final internship or real-world job-search for me after "walking" in my cap and gown. Instead, I spent the spring and summer in Ann Arbor. Other than the first and only math of my college career (an advanced statistics class which my adviser mistook for an introductory class) I decided to take a full slate of film classes, because that's what sounded compelling. (On the up-side, 50 credits of it-doesn't-matter-what-you take did point me in the right direction for my career and eventual move to Los Angeles.)
On my way into that very last final - the inappropriately non-introductory stats - I prayed to any deity that would listen: LET ME OUT OF HERE. I wanted to get to California immediately, but I had no money. So after I passed stats-for-not-beginners, I did what haunts the dreams of all college graduates... I moved back in with my parents.
I love my parents. You know I love my parents. My parents know I love my parents. They are terrific people. They helped me save up money to get a car and a down payment on an apartment, and even loaned me a little extra in case the temp jobs didn't kick in right away. Despite my mom's ill health and my quest for a career in an industry that's breakneckingly competitive at best, they even encouraged me to follow my dreams. My dad even drove with me across country with a truck full of my belongings, toward a city thousands of miles away where no job, family, friends or even apartment awaited. They are/were GREAT PARENTS.
But if you put a 22-year-old, who has lived on her own for four years, back in her parents' house... everybody's in for quite a shock. Those eight months in Midland were possibly some of my darkest. I temped as an office assistant at the Company Town's company from 8 to 5, and then I sequestered myself into my childhood bedroom between the hours of 6 and 8 to watch the first syndicated showings of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on a tiny TV. Around 8, depending on the day, I might or might not have staggered bleary-eyed into the living room. Or kitchen. Definitely the kitchen.
I was lonely. For my friends. For Ann Arbor, and all its Culture and its cultures, and everything it represented. For freakin' sushi. (Oh, timing -- Midland didn't open its first Japanese restaurant until six months after I moved to LA.) I was lonely for my freedom.
Wonderful though my parents were, being back in their home meant being back under their rules. There was a curfew. There was no heading out to a bar alone, which wasn't my style anyway, but I was desperate for some socializing. My one close friend in the area was a bride-to-be/on her honeymoon/a newlywed, and though she was lovely and kind, there's only so much wedded bliss a single bridesmaid can take. Except for Willow and Xander - and they were fictional - I felt very, very alone. (Side note: little did I know that my future husband felt the exact same way at the exact same time.)
So I ate. And I ate. I ate at the first hint of heartbreak in my senior year, ordering the first of many 2 AM deliveries of Pizza House pepperoni breadsticks and milkshakes with my roommate. I ate during my thesis - a play set in a liposuction clinic - having baked Valentine's cupcakes for no Valentine in particular. I ate when we found the Girl Scouts special edition Samoa ice cream. ("Please, sir, I want Samoa," we joked.) I ate sushi when I left the Ann Arbor for the last time. I really ate in Midland. Fast food. Slow food. My parents' food. My own stash. Sometimes all in the same night. Brazenly, not caring who saw me. Secretly, not wanting to share. Not wanting to be judged. I ate.
**
I was finishing this thought when my therapist interrupted me. "I'm sorry, but I really have to ask you to breathe."
What?
I had been expressing all of that pent-up sadness -- and anger, my therapist tells me -- and I had no idea that I'd been hyperventilating the whole time. I took a breath. I tried to make it a deep one. It seemed impossible.
**
Since my therapy session last week, the concept keeps popping up again and again in my brain.
In my life, I have gained so much weight that I now cannot breathe at night without the help of a machine.
When I binged, I binged until I could hardly breathe. And I certainly couldn't move well without breathing well.
When I exercise, I exhale. I breathe out emotional smoke - from the embers of suppressed anger, into which I can so rarely tap.
To fully take care of myself, I must leave enough room to breathe. In my stomach. In my schedule. In my heart.
Today, I will do that by posting on this blog - because holding my words back here is holding me back. I will do that by planning my food, preparing my food, and eating my food mindfully. I will do that by sweating at Slimmons, focusing each breath to release of whatever it is inside of me, blocking my progress.
I hope you'll take care of you today. And I hope you'll breathe.
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Weigh-in Tuesday: Dear Twelve-Year-Old Heidi
Dear Twelve-year-old Heidi,
Hey, kiddo. It's me. It's you. It's us.
I'm 32 now, and the other day I stumbled upon a thought I hadn't had in a long time. I was thinking about you, and your music program in sixth grade, and how you were really having a hard time back then. Because when you're just on the verge of a breakthrough, things can feel especially dreadful.
I remember that you felt isolated.
For one thing, you didn't feel like you were on the same page as the people in your class. It was a small class, with tight cliques, and emotions running rampant as prepubescent hormones blossomed. They grew up into some great people, but at the time, you were drifting apart from them. Couples were pairing off, and it really stung as some your closest friends started holding hands with some of your crushes. Ah, crushes. So called for their ability to crush a little heart. You felt completely unpretty. You definitely felt fat - though you were at a healthy weight - and you believed that the fat stood between you and all good things. It's important that you hang in there, little me. There are kindred spirits in your future. There is great love to come. There is upcoming comfort in your own skin, even when you're actually overweight. (Even when you're morbidly obese.) And there is courage to take care good of yourself, too.
For another thing, you were saddled with a teacher who discouraged you. When you mention to a teacher that you're interested in writing, the last thing you should be told is that you'll never be a good writer. Heck, even if you were a bad writer at the time (which you weren't) a teacher's job is to encourage and enrich the student, not put them down. I hate to admit it, but that one statement will come back to haunt you, long after other teachers award you, bosses promote you, clients commend you for your writing. You'll still secretly worry that your sixth-grade teacher was right, that you'll never be a writer. But you ARE one. Throughout your life, you'll work very hard on it, and you'll keep improving at it. You'll even make a living doing it.
To top it all off, you were getting ready for the spring music program. Two of the 'cool' girls were asked to do a dance together, and you were secretly (or maybe not-so-secretly) jealous of them. I know it wasn't so much about the dancing (though you'd been studying ballet for six years)... it was about feeling lonely. Girls with whom you wanted to fit in were spending extra time together, without you.
Chin up. You have to realize - you weren't really excluded. You were, in fact, invited to sing a solo. But you didn't like the solo, because you wanted to dance with your friends. And you didn't like the song. It though it was unpopular, like you thought you were unpopular.
Here's the thing. That song? It's actually one of the most beloved songs in the American music canon. It became famous in a movie musical. One that you will grow to love.
You'll watch it for the first time in a few years, at a cozy cabin while eating raspberry pie with your very first kindred-spirit friend. You'll adore it. You'll quote from it frequently. You'll come back to it again and again.
Later in your life, you'll find yourself sitting in a lawn chair, in a cemetery, in the dark. You'll be snuggled up in blankets, and in your husband's arms. You'll be surrounded by several of your kindred-spirit friends, as you all stare up at a mausoleum wall, aglow with beautiful scenes from your favorite movie musical of all time. A cool breeze will swirl around you, and you'll look up and notice that you can just barely make out the outline of the palm trees in the dark
You won't be thinking of how you sang that song in your sixth grade spring music program. You won't be thinking of anything... except how you feel incredibly - completely - content.
There's a little piece of advice a former (er, future?) boss gave me once. When you're feeling jealous of someone because they... have a boyfriend... spend more time with someone else... have a moment in the spotlight... have an easier journey to good health... are more successful in their career... or for any reason at all... you should:
It's a figure of speech. It means that if you're worried about what you don't have, you should focus on what you do have. Don't have a dance to perform like someone else? Work hard on that solo, and really savor the fact that you get to have your own private moment in the spotlight. Haven't sold your screenplays like someone else? Work hard on them. Working hard on your writing has always paid off in the past. (See? I'm taking the same advice.)
I think it's also good advice to take literally. You're going to go through a long process of weight gain, little me. It's going to be hard on you. But in time, you'll find your balance, and then you're going to take good care of yourself - and try to do it in every way you can. That's what I'm doing right now. I'm down a pound this week, but I notice that I've gotten a little bit lax with the measuring, lazy about counting. So I'm going to work on keeping my eye on my own plate.
You've got big things ahead, twelve-year-old me. You've got places to go and people to love, who love you. How's this for a deal? You keep breathing, and keep trying, and keep being yourself. And I will, too. And in another 20 years, maybe we'll get some great insight from 52-year-old Heidi. In the meanwhile... I am always with you, and you are most definitely always with me.
Love,
Heidi
Hey, kiddo. It's me. It's you. It's us.
 |
| Here I/you/we are at the spring music program in sixth grade. |
I'm 32 now, and the other day I stumbled upon a thought I hadn't had in a long time. I was thinking about you, and your music program in sixth grade, and how you were really having a hard time back then. Because when you're just on the verge of a breakthrough, things can feel especially dreadful.
I remember that you felt isolated.
For one thing, you didn't feel like you were on the same page as the people in your class. It was a small class, with tight cliques, and emotions running rampant as prepubescent hormones blossomed. They grew up into some great people, but at the time, you were drifting apart from them. Couples were pairing off, and it really stung as some your closest friends started holding hands with some of your crushes. Ah, crushes. So called for their ability to crush a little heart. You felt completely unpretty. You definitely felt fat - though you were at a healthy weight - and you believed that the fat stood between you and all good things. It's important that you hang in there, little me. There are kindred spirits in your future. There is great love to come. There is upcoming comfort in your own skin, even when you're actually overweight. (Even when you're morbidly obese.) And there is courage to take care good of yourself, too.
For another thing, you were saddled with a teacher who discouraged you. When you mention to a teacher that you're interested in writing, the last thing you should be told is that you'll never be a good writer. Heck, even if you were a bad writer at the time (which you weren't) a teacher's job is to encourage and enrich the student, not put them down. I hate to admit it, but that one statement will come back to haunt you, long after other teachers award you, bosses promote you, clients commend you for your writing. You'll still secretly worry that your sixth-grade teacher was right, that you'll never be a writer. But you ARE one. Throughout your life, you'll work very hard on it, and you'll keep improving at it. You'll even make a living doing it.
To top it all off, you were getting ready for the spring music program. Two of the 'cool' girls were asked to do a dance together, and you were secretly (or maybe not-so-secretly) jealous of them. I know it wasn't so much about the dancing (though you'd been studying ballet for six years)... it was about feeling lonely. Girls with whom you wanted to fit in were spending extra time together, without you.
Chin up. You have to realize - you weren't really excluded. You were, in fact, invited to sing a solo. But you didn't like the solo, because you wanted to dance with your friends. And you didn't like the song. It though it was unpopular, like you thought you were unpopular.
 |
| But you sang that song anyway. Here you are, doing it. |
Here's the thing. That song? It's actually one of the most beloved songs in the American music canon. It became famous in a movie musical. One that you will grow to love.
You'll watch it for the first time in a few years, at a cozy cabin while eating raspberry pie with your very first kindred-spirit friend. You'll adore it. You'll quote from it frequently. You'll come back to it again and again.
Later in your life, you'll find yourself sitting in a lawn chair, in a cemetery, in the dark. You'll be snuggled up in blankets, and in your husband's arms. You'll be surrounded by several of your kindred-spirit friends, as you all stare up at a mausoleum wall, aglow with beautiful scenes from your favorite movie musical of all time. A cool breeze will swirl around you, and you'll look up and notice that you can just barely make out the outline of the palm trees in the dark
You won't be thinking of how you sang that song in your sixth grade spring music program. You won't be thinking of anything... except how you feel incredibly - completely - content.
There's a little piece of advice a former (er, future?) boss gave me once. When you're feeling jealous of someone because they... have a boyfriend... spend more time with someone else... have a moment in the spotlight... have an easier journey to good health... are more successful in their career... or for any reason at all... you should:
 |
| ...Keep your eye on your own plate. |
It's a figure of speech. It means that if you're worried about what you don't have, you should focus on what you do have. Don't have a dance to perform like someone else? Work hard on that solo, and really savor the fact that you get to have your own private moment in the spotlight. Haven't sold your screenplays like someone else? Work hard on them. Working hard on your writing has always paid off in the past. (See? I'm taking the same advice.)
I think it's also good advice to take literally. You're going to go through a long process of weight gain, little me. It's going to be hard on you. But in time, you'll find your balance, and then you're going to take good care of yourself - and try to do it in every way you can. That's what I'm doing right now. I'm down a pound this week, but I notice that I've gotten a little bit lax with the measuring, lazy about counting. So I'm going to work on keeping my eye on my own plate.
You've got big things ahead, twelve-year-old me. You've got places to go and people to love, who love you. How's this for a deal? You keep breathing, and keep trying, and keep being yourself. And I will, too. And in another 20 years, maybe we'll get some great insight from 52-year-old Heidi. In the meanwhile... I am always with you, and you are most definitely always with me.
Love,
Heidi
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