But

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My hair is
falling out
from
nothing other
than
bad decisions.
I’m
getting divorced
at 25.
My friendships
are fading,
in a mask
of distance
and hurt.
The most
loving
people
in my life
have left me.
I have
years
more
of school
and debt.
But
alcohol
doesn’t consume me
anymore.
And my
mental health
is turning around.
I may be lonely
but I’m not alone.
I’m the happiest
I think I’ve ever been.

More than just fat.

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It’s subtle, but I can tell it’s beginning. It shows in the slight definition under my cheekbones, the increasing tightness in my waist, the loosening of my clothes. It reveals itself in the way that my normally strained stretch marks are starting to wrinkle and deflate.

I’m beginning to lose weight again.

It’s not obvious on the scale yet, but when you are a person of my size and history, that usually doesn’t come for awhile. Not until after the muscle mass builds itself back up again and stops skewing the scale.

I haven’t started to panic yet. It’s still not noticeable to others, so I haven’t started receiving comments asking me if I’m losing weight, or telling me that I’m looking better.

I don’t need or want to hear that shit.

If I lose weight, I am aware of it. It is not something I want to hear about from acquaintances.

Let me be very clear about this: I do not consider congratulations about losing weight to be complimentary.

Because… there is nothing inherently bad about being fat.

Touching on my own history, I’ve always been thick, but didn’t get truly big until I developed a drinking problem. I gained more than a hundred pounds incredibly rapidly. I have some truly spectacular stretch marks.

I’ve also always been suicidal to some extent. Why is this relevant? Someone that has no interest in living, will have very little interest in self care. Why would someone who has no expectation of a future waste their time on diet and exercise?

Now, in a truly unexpected turn, I am no longer on antidepressants, since my psychiatrist believes that I have cleared that hurdle and now need to simply focus on my treatment for Borderline Personality Disorder. No longer being able to view myself as depressed is strange and scary. Depression may have been miserable, but it was my whole life, familiar and comfortable. Now I’m finding that I lack the coping skills for being okay!

Luckily, I have rejected drinking as a potential coping skill. Stepping off the path towards alcoholism has been slow. Finding myself okay with not being drunk is new. I feel more invigorated and stronger. I may feel naked and exposed right now, but I’m not hiding behind booze.

So, because of these things, I’m losing weight.

Please don’t tell me about it.

I need to hear about a piece of my art or writing that you liked. I need to hear that you value me as a friend. I need to hear that you care or that you love me. I need to hear that you’d like to spend time with me. I need to hear that you’re proud of me going back to school. I need to hear that you like my goddamn T shirt.
I don’t need to hear that I’m less fat. It makes no difference to my value as a human being, or, at least, I hope you think that way. I won’t be a better person if I’m 10 or 50 or 150 pounds lighter, and I’d hate to think that you’d give me a compliment based purely on being less offensive towards stereotypical beauty, or perceived potential health improvement.

I want people to be more conscious of the reasons that they say certain things, to truly evaluate why it might mean multiple things when you say something that seems relatively simple.

Be aware, there’s quite often more than meets the eye going on.

Bio-logical

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I just
squished a bug
that
landed on my wrist.
I ended a life.
Multitudes of atoms
formed organs
that allowed
a creature
to live
and breathe
and eat
and breed.
There’s no saying
that it had
more or less
value
than me,
and I ended it.
I’m a monster.

Becoming

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My mother often jokes about the crayon marks on the wall- you’d think that in a 150 year old house, with a husband that does custom paint jobs on cars, my artwork would have been painted over in the last twenty years. However, it perseveres, abstract renderings that my mother claims will make the house worth more when I’m famous. I think of this sometimes when I traipse through the living room… What will these be worth when I’m successful? That phrase then sticks in my head, wandering over and over, taking laps through the same worn paths. Half the time I can’t tell whether the thought “when I’m successful” boils down to “when I’ve achieved something of significance in my life” or “when I’ve done it right while attempting suicide.” I’m sure both would add value to the scribbles on the wall, entirely different kinds, but still, something.

I’ve attempted suicide twice in the last two months. Maybe this is too honest, maybe I shouldn’t be sharing this. But things don’t change by letting them sit in silence. When I get chastised for joking about another attempt(as I do), I’ll often reply “I’ll try harder next time.” How this becomes a joke for me can be unclear to others, I know, but I can’t help it. I’ve wanted to die for as long as I can remember. It’s all I know. I think it’d be evidence of being more unbalanced if I COULDN’T joke about it.

Cognitive distortions. I’m told these are the things that tell me I am worthless. I currently only see them as truth. That is the way it will be until I put in the very, very difficult work of training myself otherwise.

Someone once told me, “If you could see yourself through other people, you’d know you are worthwhile.”
My reply was “If I could see myself through other people, those people would need to go to the hospital.” Snark is a defense.

The hospital is a place I’ve been several times. It doesn’t seem to help for very long. Therapy is a place I‘ve been several times, through several programs. It doesn’t seem to help for very long. Hey, I’ve even had an exorcism. That sure as hell didn’t help.

A last ditch effort was ECT, electro convulsive therapy. The phrase makes most people immediately jump to a Cuckoo conclusion, but things are very different now than were portrayed in that film. It’s highly civilized and ultimately very hopeful. I got several weeks of what may have been normalcy out of it. I’ve also gotten a fair amount of damage to both my long and short term memory systems, some of which may shake out, some of which is permanent. However, once again it didn’t seem to help for very long. I did more damage to myself than I ever have before, after having been normal and happy for awhile.

Now I’m starting DBT, Dialectical Behavior Therapy, which is all about teaching people to respond to stress, harmful impulses, bad thoughts, etc. in healthier ways. I’ve just started, but I’m feeling very hopeful. I’ve already gotten a bit of practice with one of the techniques. It’s an intense program, and a commitment. A patient signs up for an entire year of the program, which, for me, meets an hour away and twice a week. It will be worth it if I can achieve healthier mannerisms through this process, naturally, but if this also fails me, then I have run out of options.

I am determined to make this year mean something.
I will learn.
I will learn to believe, believe the good things that people tell me that I am.
Because I am stronger than I can see.
I am more than I believe.
I am above the sum of my faults.
And I am worthwhile.
I am creative.
I am kind.
I am talented.
I am loved.
I am smart.
I am funny.
I am giving.
And I am capable of changing the way I think about myself.
I am capable of becoming what I am.
I can’t think of anything that would make me more successful.
Wish me luck this year.

I wouldn’t touch that if I were you…

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I was proud of a particularly nice weld. It lay between each hunk of steel, puddles so tight and smooth that it looked like metal bred with liquid silk. I wanted to show it off, so I pulled off my helmet, which had no doubt left strappy sweat marks trailing through my hair, and went to where my brother, face contorted, was setting up the CNC mill. I watched the wiggler approach the shaft for a moment, then stop. I took my chance.
I asked my brother “Are you grumpy?”
He replied “I’m always grumpy. What do you need?”
“I just wanted to show you a weld that’s pretty special looking.”
As we walked over, he asked, “Does it glow in the dark?”
“It can if you give me twenty minutes. I do have that spray paint.”
He stood over the bench and examined the part. “Huh. That’s pretty nice.”
I would never expect higher praise from him.