Recovery

My therapist turned me on to a book – The Body Is Not An Apology. I just ordered it online, and it should be here in a few days. The title resonates because I have been doing exactly that – apologizing for this body for so very long. Sorry I don’t fit, sorry it’s too big, sorry it’s in the way, sorry I’m such a klutz, sorry, sorry, sorry. At least people no longer say things like “but you have such a pretty face” or “but you’re so intelligent”. Fuck all y’all. I will be interested to see what insights and maybe tools the book has to offer. I’m at that point where I’m not apologizing for much of anything any longer.

I remember when…and the latest writing prompt: what if my body WASN’T an apology? What if it’s NOT too late? Then what?

What if my body is NOT an apology? If not, then what am I apologizing for? Whether my body isn’t an apology, I’m living as thought it is one long transgression on my part. Sorry I ate that cookie for breakfast, I will never lose weight that way. Sorry I’m too big to fit through here. Sorry I can’t sit on the floor and get up easily. Sorry I’m enjoying these sweets so much. Sorry I haven’t lost any weight. Sorry I wear only sweat pants and oversized shirts these days. Sorry I can’t go on that march for voting rights with everyone else. Sorry I can’t look presentable in dress clothes. Sorry I have to shop in the big men’s section. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

Who am I apologizing to? The rest of the world, or my mother, or myself? Do I believe there are some people who genuinely love me and don’t care how fat I am? I do. Do I believe they don’t notice that I’m unhealthy? I do. Do I believe that makes no difference to them? Not sure about that. I’m never sure that anything less than a bell-curve existence ensures belonging and acceptance. Where the hell did THAT come from?

I was reflecting earlier on anger, and I acknowledge that I still have plenty. It’s not elevated to rage as easily as in the past, but it’s there. I was musing on where in my body that anger resides, and I would have to say that it’s mostly in my stomach, in my gut. It’s physically reflected there, and that’s where I have always felt the most discomfort, the feeling that it’s some glued on artificial part of my body. An afterthought. That’s how I’ve always felt in times of crisis, like an afterthought, and obligatory detail that follows the more important considerations of a plan, or an endeavor. Like making sure you’ve fed the dog or filled the empty water bowl. Details that must be attended to, because those are the rules and not because your first thought is the love or comfort of the beast.

Living as an obligatory detail in the lives of others doesn’t exactly give you a warm and fuzzy feeling. It is no wonder I am somewhat disconnected from what I feel, and more importantly, from what I believe others feel. When people say they love me, I see a blank sheet of paper. I believe they mean that, but I wait for evidence. So many have said that while twisting a knife in my back that I allow myself the distrust. It occurs to me that I don’t really know what love is. There always seems to be a line between my own self-preservation and that of others. It was certainly true when it came time for taking care of my mother – there was a line I was not willing to cross, and certainly not alone.

My life has been a series of waypoints and milestones that I’ve crossed on my own. My own birth was that way – mommy told them “knock me out” and they did. I fought my way down the birth canal mostly on my own, only to be yanked out unceremoniously by clacking forceps and deposited on not-so-swaddling accoutrements. I suspect there are some of my issues that can be explained by insufficient bonding with my mother, who wasn’t in terribly good health when the blessed event occurred. I thought my grandmother was my mother until I was nearly 3 because dear old mom was out of commission with gall bladder surgery and then a hysterectomy. On some levels, I was on my own. I bottle fed until I was about 3, and even though many people said it should be taken away my mother refused. She told me, much later, that one day I waddled over to the trashcan and just threw the bottle in, and that was the end of it.

I am still meandering through my life’s events mostly on my own. When I have been hurt, and grossly betrayed, I have been an afterthought in that tableau. Don’t talk about it, don’t share the story with anyone outside of the house. Your little needs are not important right now, i was told. There are bigger issues to be dealt with. Here’s some food, and there are drinks in the refrigerator, so you’re fine. You have a scholarship to college, so don’t call here to ask your father for money again – you’re fine. Keep a smile on your face – you’re fine. There’s nothing you need, you’re fine.

I wasn’t fine. There was plenty that I needed. I needed to know that I was going to be OK, that it wasn’t my fault. I needed to know that my feelings were important enough to be dealt with and not just some pain in everyone’s arse. I needed to be an intention and not an obligation, not something that would work itself out. So often I was left to my own devices, and thought of whenever I might open my mouth and embarrass other people by telling the real story behind the polite smiles and social graces. I held that in my gut, because that was the only place that was my own. I slept on my stomach, hunched over when I sat, protecting what I felt was the most precious part of me.

When I had my uterus removed a few years ago, I initially felt as though I had failed. Failed as a woman, failed to curate the mysterious feminine orifice that I never made use of. Failed to provide grandchildren, although I was 8 when I said I would never have children. I wasn’t kidding then, and there are no regrets (at least on my part). I do not believe I would have made a good mother, because all I had to offer was the dysfunction of my own childhood and that of my parents. As an adult of childbearing age, I strongly felt there were enough screwed up kids in the world, like myself, and I didn’t need to contribute more. That seemed like sound thinking, and it still does.

My mother could be very cruel, particularly when it came to my body. In many ways, I consider some of her treatment to be covert sexual abuse, and I had no real defense. Constantly telling me that I was sloppy, and to close my legs because nobody wanted to see “that” if I was sitting cross-legged. She constantly referred to that part of my body as ugly, stinky, and disgusting. Compared me to skinny girls and wondered why I couldn’t stop eating so much and look like them. I was fat, and was never going to attract anyone looking that way. If she saw a particularly repulsive looking man on the street, she would turn to me and say, “There goes your last chance.” I believed her, plus…I knew somehow that I was different regardless. Boys weren’t particularly interesting to me, but I didn’t quite understand why. All I knew was that nobody was going to be interested in me that way because my mother said so. And that was all there was to it.

Writing this, and looking at how anger lives in my body, I feel as though I should be angry about that abusive messaging, but right now I’m not so much angry as hurt and confused. Why did she do that? Where did she learn that? Did my grandmother do that to her? I loved my grandmother so much, and she never said those things to me. It pains me even now to believe that she could have modeled any of that for my mother. Why DID I turn out to be a compulsive eater, why was I so weak that I couldn’t stop eating too much? I must have just been defective, a failure from an early age. That is the answer I have accepted for a very long time.

So, perhaps it’s time for me to stop apologizing. In recovery, I always tell people that merely saying you’re sorry doesn’t resolve old behavior if you’re still doing the same thing and expecting different results. If you step on my foot and say you’re sorry, that’s fine. If you step on my foot again and again and again, and say you’re sorry each time, how sorry are you if you keep doing it? If you don’t modify your behavior to avoid hurting me, are you really sorry? Forgive me if I don’t believe you at that point.

In that vein, who am I apologizing to? Maybe it’s me. Maybe I am making apologies to myself, for the failure to control my appetite and failure to provide a functional vessel to house my dysfunctional brain? This is getting too complicated, but suffice it to say that I’m just not happy with things as they are. I’m not sorry to say that, either.

That’s reality, and that brings up the question of where do I go from here? When my uterus malfunctioned, I had it removed. I am about to have malfunctioning teeth removed and replaced with implants. I cannot have my appetite, or that part of my brain that prompts me to use food as comfort, removed. There’s not a pill or a shot that will fix this, no surgical procedure that I can trust, and I’m not going to become anorexic by Sunday. I can survive without ever consuming alcohol again, but I cannot survive without consuming food and moderation is generally not in my vocabulary. What does recovery from this even look like?

So, I suppose that if I’m angry at this point, it’s with having been wired this way. My cousins do not have obesity in their repertoire. Where did this come from, and can I give it back? Why can’t I be mediocre about THIS part of my journey?