relative experience (not)

Forgive me my maudlin post of last week, but it was just where I was. Now I am here, Sunday morning, bright sky, and though I can't say that I am feeling Grrreat! Tony the Tiger Style, I can say that I feel a little less, oh, dramatic, a little less end-of-my-ropeish.

It's good to know that there are people out there who relate to my plight as a fat woman. But I will say here that I have to really work at letting the comforting words of friends and comrades in arms penetrate my armor. Why? Because 99% of the time, I'm hearing from thin(ner) people. And I can't help it, there's this voice that screams in my head that says "You know nothing of my fight. You don't have any idea what true obesity means, or what it's like to battle genes that have pre-determined one's fate."

I'm sure that I sound like a petulant child. Angry. (I am. This anger is ancient, all too familiar.) When I hear "if only I could just drop ten pounds," the sarcastic bitch in me is unleashed.. Oooooo, TEN WHOLE POUNDS! Call out the Food Army! We have a situation here! How can you even go out in public?

I once had a therapist, we'll call her Lynn. She was this petite blonde thing, cute, smart, a third-year student in the professional psych program at a local university. I was broke, and needed therapy, so I'd chosen to see a (supervised) student instead of forgoing therapy all together. Lynn wasn't what I would call terribly intuitive, but she and I did do some interesting work together. Then the unthinkable happened. One night, while I was laying in bed and torturing myself by perusing the Title Nine catalog (replete with gorgeous fit women in their "element"--running, hiking, surfing, etc.), I happened to turn the page and (literally) gasped...there was Lynn, decked out in periwinkle spandex running shorts and a cute little jog bra, running through autumn leaves, a slight smile on her face. I felt like I was going to throw up. I said, aloud, "my therapist is in here" and S. grunted a little in acknowledgment but didn't look up from her book.

"I'm serious," I said. "It's her."
"What?"
I sat up in bed. Suddenly I felt like I'd drank a pot of coffee. My heart was racing. "Lynn, my therapist. She's right there." I pointed to the page--no, I stabbed the page. "See!?"
"Oh, okay," said S.
"OKAY? This is so NOT okay."

What ensued was a conversation wherein I was near hysterical at the thought that this woman, to whom I had entrusted all of my neuroses around weight, was not only an ideal in MY mind but she was an ideal in the minds of the Masses. Enough so that she was asked to appear in a catalog. I could not, I decided, do any serious work around body issues with someone who (obviously) knew nothing of the struggle. She was perfect, I was not. And there was no middle ground where we could meet, because society doesn't have a middle ground for these things, nor for that matter, do I. You're either beautiful and widely accepted or fat and an outcast, looked upon with disgust. Fat is the new black. And I'm not referring to the color of your clothing, either.

I wrote Lynn an email the next day, which was something I never did. I told her that I had seen the catalog and her picture and I just didn't think that it was possible for us to continue working together because, as a perfect thin person, she was so far beyond understanding my plight that I didn't think it was worth it for us to continue.

I went to our next session with the intent of ending the relationship. Lynn was fully aware that this was my plan, and we spent the whole time talking about what had happened when I saw her picture. Lynn even said that she thought of me when they were on location for the shoot, and worried that I might see the catalog. I was surprised by this. "I had a feeling you would react like this," she said. Her insight was a little unnerving, and I wasn't sure that I trusted it fully. But I could sense her willingness to "go" with me to that ugly place I was now occupying, a place of isolation and self-admonishment. She didn't want to give up on the work we were doing, and she was able to convince me that this, right here, was enough for us to keep plowing ahead. She didn't say that she understood what it was like to live in a body that you hate, but she also made it clear that she'd struggled mightily too, in her own way. It was a hard session, full of me challenging her and her not backing down. Eventually, I relented.

We worked together for another six months, after which time Lynn moved to the Twin Cities to take an internship at a hospital. I never saw or spoke with her again.

What I learned from that experience is that a person's physical appearance often belies his/her history with body image/weight issues. I needed to respect that everyone has their own burdens, and many of them are not visible to the naked eye. Just because a friend of mine has a body that I would give my right arm for doesn't mean that she sees herself clearly, i.e. as someone who is the object of envy. But. With the new year came all these feelings of inequity and anger: the world isn't fair, why can't I succeed, why can't I be better, stronger, leaner...the feeling that I'm destined to die fat, and that (alone) brings up a host of issues, and the spokesperson for those loves the mantra "You have NO IDEA what I'm going through." Perhaps some sensitivity training for the spokesperson is in order.