Sunday Confession #2

I am not perfect.

This is not news to anyone especially myself. 

I am perfectly fine with being imperfect (sort of). 

That part, however, is relatively new in my world. Since reaching 30, I have become more involved in feminist views and, through that, I have entered the realm of body acceptance. It’s been a hard road, I must admit. When I was a young child, I was blasted constantly with derogatory comments from my father and grandparents about my weight. Either I needed to eat more or I needed to go on a diet. My dad often referred to me as “Crisco” or “Lard ass” instead of using my name when I would gain weight. When I was around 18, my grandparents offered me $500 to get to an approved weight. Needless to say, it created a complex. I hated the way I looked all the time. I hid behind baggy clothes and counted calories. Even in my early teens, I refused to go on the beach or wear a bathing suit in a pool. I stopped wearing shorts, skirts, and dresses. I existed in a dark world of self-hatred, eating issues, and thoughts of suicide. Instead of being supportive and helping me make healthy food choices, I was made to feel ashamed of my changing body. 

I spent my entire adolescence and early adulthood having never felt beautiful. 

Everyone tells you that it’s what on the inside that counts anyway. If only that were true, it would make all the difference. The fact is, though, that America is very much a physical society. We make base judgments about people on their level of attractiveness. There has been study upon study conducted about how much of an opinion we form in the first 10-20 seconds of looking at someone, and the results show that attractiveness decides trust, believability, aggressiveness, friendliness and more. In the last 5 elections, we have consistently elected the younger candidate of the main two political parties. Every ad related to makeup and clothing is filled with women who have ideal body shapes and facial features. We, as a society, are more concerned about body size and appearance than in any other feature of a person to the point where we consistently make flawed choices based on looks alone. 

Telling someone who has body issues that it’s what is on the inside that counts is like trying to convince an adult that Santa Claus is real. Oh, wouldn’t it be so magical if it were true, but the sheer volume of facts outweighing your statement makes the truth pretty fucking obvious so let’s just skip the bullshit, okay? 

So, in the end, I am insecure still that I am not part of the 5% of women who can actually fit the model body type. I have a lifetime of voices that still echo in my head every time I look in the mirror even though I am a size 12. I am insecure about food and find that counting calories is a rather difficult thing to stop doing. And, I am insecure that I can't love myself just the way I am. I look at blogs about body acceptance and wish I had that courage because I know I can be brave and strong and let go of these things. One day is what I tell myself, and I hope that's not a lie.

Sunday Confession (Insecurities) #1

I follow a blog called More Than Cheese and Beer that hosts Sunday Confessions. Today's confessions are about insecurities. Here's the first:

I had a combination Pulp Fiction/Lifetime movie moment during the birth of my son. It all started with the hospital suggesting pitocin to induce labor 1 day after my due date. That morning, October 19, 2005, at 6 am, the nurse started the pitocin and put the monitor on my very rotund belly, only she didn't secure it properly. For hours I was having contractions while nurses told me I was not and continued to up the dose of pitocin. After finally figuring out the monitor blunder, the nurses said the pitocin was far too high and the contractions very strong and decided to back off on the drug completely for awhile. I labored for 12 hours in this way before I finally saw my doctor. Nurses said I was dilating fine, but as soon as he saw me, he knew something was wrong and checked. One side of my cervix wasn't dilating at all. I had also been telling the nurses that despite my epidural, I was still hurting in my pelvis and vaginal area. They laughed it off and said that was impossible. The doctor noticed my elevated heart rate and blood pressure and suggested I have a Cesarean. I cried so hard. It was the last straw on a really awful experience. He gave me 45 minutes to see if things would change, but I know now he only gave me that time to come to terms with the surgery and calm down. By the time he returned, though, I was screaming in pain. I couldn't hear, couldn't talk, couldn't see. My heart rate and blood pressure continued to rise so high that as the surgery began and the numbness finally calmed the pain, I managed to tell someone how badly my chest hurt. Someone was immediately called to get a shot of Inderal to slow my heart rate down. It was well over 200 at this point. While this person was poised above me a la Pulp Fiction with an injection that would keep my heart going (though it wouldn't exactly have been stabbed into my chest), I heard my son cry for the first time. My body responded immediately, and my heart rate slowed on its own. Afterwards, while I was still too shaky from the side effects of the fentanyl used to numb me to even touch my baby, the doctor came to check on me. He said, "I was worried we might lose you there for a minute."

I'm insecure about the horrible scar I have because the doctor had to rush. My life was at stake; he couldn't take time to make sure it wouldn't be bad. I'm insecure about the way the Cesarean changed my body. I'll never get rid of that pouch of flesh. I'm insecure about my entire birthing experience. I'm insecure that I can never have another child--I'm too scared now to try. I don't know what combination of factors really caused that reaction in my body, and I can't or win't risk leaving my son without a mom. And, finally, I'm insecure because of the abortion I had in 2010 out of that fear.