Let's Talk Fat Talk

This article from the New York Times blog struck a chord with me this week, and since my posting has been so lackluster lately, I thought I should share my thoughts with y'all.

I know, you're just desperate to hear my thoughts.

Called "‘Fat Talk’ Compels but Carries a Cost", the post discussed the type of body-shaming, self-hating, flaw-focusing talk that most women engage in. 93%, according to the article. Obviously it goes without saying that while this kind of talk bonds friends together and gives them common ground, it's incredibly damaging and detrimental to their individual psyches.

But what came to mind as I read the article is that, amongst my group of closest friends, I don't engage in that kind of talk. I haven't been faced with it in my friendships day in and day out for the past several years, and for that I'm lucky. I guess that's why the Biff and the Buff and the lady from Spain, etc, are my gal pals. Because they aren't the sorts of people who would engage in fat talk.

But sure, I do have friends with whom this stuff does tend to happen, specifically with people who are also trying to lose weight. Unfortunately, it's just society. We can't help ourselves. But as far as my core group of besties...nope.

I do notice that, when I do engage in the "God I'm so fat 'cause I ate this, my stomach is so huge, I feel disgusting", it certainly does make me feel worse, make me feel down. At first it feels great to tear myself to pieces and focus on my flaws, beat myself up and give in to every urge to self-loathe. It's always nice to reaffirm your worst thoughts about yourself, you know? But then it wears on you, and every insult hurts a little more, and when your friends start to engage in it too, you think they're talking about you, and it's a vicious cycle.

So I'm really going to try to cut it out. Cut the fat talk out with my Weight Watchers friends, and with myself. Cut it OUT of my life. Only voice the good thoughts out loud into the world. Say nice things about myself. Tell myself I'm pretty and special.

If you put out positivity, you'll get it back, right?

RIGHT. 

Why I Haven't Been Writing

I have not been able to figure out what my god damn damage is.

Why can't I write?

I haven't had this much trouble writing in awhile. But lately, it's been like pulling teeth. My average of five posts a day has dwindled down drastically, and despite the raw nerves sizzling all over my body and brain, I can't make enough sense of their roots to get much of anything down on paper. Screen.

And today I realized.

I write when I'm passionate, and lately, I've felt...flat. Despite being off the rails, as I like to call it, despite being in pain. Despite my brain being out in the stars, despite my actions being not my own.

Despite it all. I've been flat. On auto-pilot. Without connection.

I need to get my passion back.

Spastically Shy

It may come as a surprise to those of you who have met me in person, but I'm actually incredibly shy.

I just hide it really, really well.

My personality is a lot like my writing---loud, all over the place, whimsical, witty. (Is my writing any of those things? I have no idea.) In new situations, I'm chatty, I make jokes, I laugh often and with great enthusiasm. I talk to strangers, I'm friendly to cashiers, I smile at people who cross my path.

But a lot of that is, if not quite an act, a "show", if you will. It helps covers up the fact that I'm petrified of being disliked, of people thinking I'm obnoxious, of being out of place in the world around me. I live in constant fear that who I am is not enough, or too much, so I work hard to overcompensate by being me, but on full blast. Nothing I do is inauthentic, it's just...practiced.

Wednesday in therapy the discussion turned to my childhood, because, of course, obviously much of my crazy finds its roots in sad little pudgy Taylor in her round purple glasses and Winnie-the-Pooh sweatshirt. As you know if you've stuck around my blog for awhile, I moved around a lot as a kid. Four times before the age of twelve, again in the middle of high school. I was always "the new girl". Always.

I spent my formative years constantly worrying about being liked. Trying to be liked. Thrust into new situations where I was the odd person out, always needing to prove myself, having to learn the new slang and what was cool and what wasn't. Always having to try to make people want to get to know me, try to be what they wanted. I've always been desperate to fit in, desperate to be liked and loved.

It's no surprise that living my childhood like that had an affect on who I am as an adult. I am still that desperate, needy twelve year old who just wants to be accepted. I am still unsure.

Just identifying this made me breath a sigh of relief, even though it should have been obvious all along. But it wasn't, really. I always wondered what it was that made me feel so different, what it was that made me feel so out of place and uncertain. And I think I've figured it out.

It physically hurts, to feel so goddamn socially awkward. To constantly worry about what I'm saying and doing. To spend my time obsessing over everything I've said and done. To wish so hard for people to like me, embrace me, open up to me.

But then, when people do, I'm totally oblivious to it, or I retreat, thinking they're just being nice for the sake of it.

I'm quite the conundrum.

I just want to be me, authentically, without this constant battle afterwards. I want to stop feeling like I'm constantly putting on a show, and just be my naturally sunny self without forcing it because I think it's what people want to see. I want to say what I feel and think without regretting it and wishing I could take it back. I want to just not give quite so many fucks.

Part of me thinks that, knowing that I am how I am, all I can do is move forward and try to change. Obviously I'm not happy as I am now, so I have to choose a different path. Maybe I can try to take a bit of a pause before I act. One problem I think I have is that I speak before I think, I rush to join in, aching for acceptance, then regret it immediately because I didn't think it through. If I do take that pause, speak less, quiet down, then maybe I can at least curtail some of my self-judgement, and know that no matter what I've said or done at least I gave it a little consideration beforehand.

But then the other part of me says, why should I have to change? So I talk a lot, I make random comments, I'm a bit of a spaz. Is there inherent badness in that? Maybe I just need to accept it, be me, and not care who doesn't like it.

I don't really know how to fix me. All I know is I want to be happier with me. And that's the first step.

Wanna Be, WannaWannaWanna Be

Here is one thing I know, after my hours and days and weeks and MONTHS of thinking about myself, writing, talking, OBSESSING.

All that I struggle with is wrapped up in wanting more than this. What I am. Who I am. I have this intense need to be something better, something different, more impressive and worthwhile and tangible than my current self. I just want, all the time.

And I think I know where some of this want comes from.

It's such a cliche, to constantly strive for the ideals streaming on every screen, flashing on every billboard, printed on every page. But they're ingrained. They're tattooed on my brain, my flesh, my being. My generation has been raised with a ridiculous amount of aspirational messages thrown at us every day, so many I don't even want to look up the statistic 'cause it'll make me depressed and really, what effect will the number have on my point in this post? You get my meaning, don't you?

My need to want comes from everything artificial that I've absorbed for so long that I don't even consciously recognize how ridiculous it all is, because it seems so natural it seems to me.

And thus, I aspire to perfection, always.

I used to want to be famous. You know this, I've mentioned it. I'm unoriginal that way. I wanted to act, to be a movie star, to have my face on the silver screen and plastered on the front of magazines. And all of that came from these messages as well. From puberty on (if not earlier), I wanted to be special and beautiful and sparkle like a princess in a modern day fairy tale. I thought that would be the happiest kind of life possible, to emulate these women whose lives seemed displayed for just that purpose, to make you want.

And it's not simply the physical things they had I wanted. Yes, I aspired to be beautiful and flawless, without fat or scar, toned and thin and healthy and fit. But I also wanted to be funny, and witty, and intelligent, and charismatic, and clumsy in a way that's adorably twee, and bumbling in a way that's charmingly quirky, and talk fast like a Gilmore, be brave like Buffy, irresistible like every romantic comedy lead.  I wanted to be the actresses that played my favorite characters, I wanted to be the characters themselves, I just wanted to be anyone but me.

I never measured up to these ideals. I still don't, and even though I've worked on killing my fantasies and no longer have any hopes or dreams of stardom, there's still that little part of me that wants everything to be different, better, perfect. I constantly fight with myself, catch myself running further ahead to a life I can't live yet, a person I can't be yet, or maybe ever. I always think that more is going to make me happy, but if I'm not happy with what I have now, what makes me think more will do it?

I know that I need to stop thinking I'm on a quest for total perfection. I mean, first of all, it's hilarious that this is my method of being considering I'm the furthest thing from perfect there is---it's like I rebel against my wants and run as far away from the idea of flawlessness as I can, in actuality. Just like I'm doing this week...mmhmm.

I've been striving for balance, for patience, for peace for so long. It's normal to have setbacks, and I've been having one these past two weeks. It's okay. I know what my problem is, and in that identification and self-awareness lies my resolution. 

I've stopped living for living, and have started living for the result again. I'm rushing, craving, wanting, aching to be further along than I am. Just a little bit more and I'll be better, happier. I'll get what I want. If I can just GET THERE. 

But I need to remember one very important thing that I think will solve this little storm of mine.

Shallow Suck

I debated whether or not to write this post, and then I decided that not writing it was dishonest, and trying to present myself a certain way to you guys, my darling readers, which is just lame. 'Cause what's the point of this blog if not to be, for the most part, as open as possible?

This weekend as I was lounging around in the sunshine, I took to my phone and checked on the status of my OkCupid inbox. Thus far, it has not actually been providing me with the kind of entertainment I was hoping. Aside from the one, no post-worthy messages. No sexually explicit offers. No waxing poetic on my beauty. Just the standard, sub-par flirtations and the occasionally half-way interesting introduction. Tons of emails, but no one I'm yet moved to meet.

I'm being picky this time around.

Anyway, I got one message that was pretty good. It seemed like he had a personality, and took the time to read my profile, and didn't cross any major boundaries. And then I took a look at his pictures.

I don't really have a "type", physically. I'm attracted from everything to a slight hipster beanpole to a burly big lumberjack. And I like to think that I'm not entirely superficial, although of course attractiveness to me is crucial. But this guy was...big. Not just overweight, but significantly so. And I instantly thought, "Oh, no."

Of course, I then felt awful about it.

Who am I to completely write someone off for their size? What kind of person am I to work this hard on self-acceptance and body lovin' and all that jazz, but not apply it to the people I'm attracted to? I SUCK. I do. That's terrible.

But then I took a moment to examine my reasons for my instinctive "no". Was it purely a physical attractiveness thing? Not entirely, though that was part of it and I can't deny it.

I thought about the fact that health and wellness is such a big part of my life now, and I talk about it a lot. I wouldn't want to put that obsession onto someone else, and make them feel pressure or shame for where they are in their own bodies. And too, I'm working to continuously move forward, not back, and while assuming someone has less than healthy habits because of a few pictures is presumptuous, it's not out of the realm of possibility.

I don't know. I'm probably awful and judgy. And it's not to say I'm not attracted to or willing to date people who are overweight at all, I am---but there's such a scale, and this guy was on the further end of it away from where I want my life to be. That's not to say I may not meet someone at that end that I could want to be with someday, but if I'm choosing from the online catalogue, I can be picky.

I mean, I'm not going for Brad Pitt circa Thelma and Louise, but yeah.

Anyway.

Thanks for listening.

I'm sorry I suck.

How To Have Perspective

Okay, so I scraped up my car.

And it was upsetting.

But you know what? I didn't get in an accident. I wasn't at risk of injury, nor was anyone else. It could have been so much worse.

My car is driveable. I have a car. It's not dented, it's just scraped. It could be bigger. When I looked at it this morning it's actually smaller than I thought it was all of last night. And it could have been the handle or something functional, right?

And I did it myself, I didn't find it in a parking lot. It wasn't the result of human indecency. I don't have to curse the world and stew in loathing for others. (I just have to get past it for myself.)

And I didn't hit another car. I don't owe anyone money.

Perspective.

It's a beautiful thing.

Mama's Little Princess Bride

Last night in therapy, I cried a lot.

I don't always cry, despite the fact that I've taken to referring to it as my "cry hour". But I've struggled the past few days, and while I've been pretty gentle with myself, haven't been too vicious in my head, and haven't fully thrown myself off the cliffs of insanity, it's been hard.

Five minutes in, we kind of figured something out.

I miss my mommy.

It's so silly, I know. But it's also not. As I mentioned, my parents are on a cruise in Italia, so I've lost my daily chats with my mom. And that's basically my only constant comfort and contact with the world outside my head. Sure, I have friends I chat with online, my Biff to text, and people I talk to at work, but of course that's not the same as an actual conversation about your day and your feelings with someone who cares about you.

Yeah, I'm twentyfuckingfive and I really need my mommy.

Stupid Italy, TAKING HER AWAY FROM ME.

(And my daddy.)

I knew on Sunday that my little binge was fueled partially by loneliness, but I pushed away that realization the last couple of days. Together with my therapist we realized that could very well be a big component of my struggles this week. It's not so much that I just MISS MY MAMA, it's that I need that connection, that structure. I call her every morning when I drive to work and every evening on my way home, and usually speak to her at least one other time throughout the day, and I've been doing this for...years. Since I left home.

I even realized that maybe I sometimes subconsciously call her as a substitute for doing self-sabotaging things. Like Tuesday, I planned on lunch yoga, and instead around the time I would have left and got in the car to call her, I instead decided to eat chips and be a lazy cow. I can't guarantee there's a direct link but it's something to think about.

My therapist said maybe the reason I struggle so much with self-regulation is that I'm so used to having a primary relationship, my mother, as a steadying force. Without that this week, I have no one to call when I'm struggling. Obviously I need to work on my relationship with myself, but it's not necessarily a bad thing to rely on the support of a primary person in your life. It's just not always going to be my mama.

God, I'm going to be a gem of a bride, right?

The Punisher

Sometimes you just need your best friend to say exactly what you've been dancing around for months, in the clearest way, for you to really get it. 

"You punish yourself a lot, then when you fight back you wonder why."

Well.

WELL.

Isn't that just about the purest nugget of truth you've read on this blog in a long, long time?

I've thought variations on that same thing before, as I've been exploring my resistance to goals and challenges, thinking about how I try to force change on myself, why I struggle with the "shoulds" and the "musts" of life. But she just phrased it so succinctly and perfectly.

When I'm coming up with weekly goals or plans for self-improvement or lists of ways I want to be different, they're punishments. They don't come from a positive place. They're penalties for perceived misdeeds, for not being good enough. So of course I rebel against myself, against the negativity, it's what I do!

I've been much happier this week, without a pile of external to-dos weighing me down, without a ticking clock counting down to failure. 

That should tell me something.

Nice To Meet You

Another topic I discussed with my therapist last night was the fact that, as I continue to shrink, I'm going to have to deal with the fact that my traitorous brain is probably going to come up with new and exciting complaints about my body.

Part of me hoped I could/would be one of those magical unicorns that loves everything about their new self as they lose weight, but alas, that is apparently not to be. I've caught my mind more than once over the last week or so judging something I see in my shape, and there's something different every day. It's because I'm now at a weight I haven't spent significant time at in over five years, and I'm crossing the threshold where things really do start to change. Every pound actually matters.

Like, there was suddenly this dip in my hip yesterday where I haven't ever seen one before, and I was like, "What the fuck, hip, are you always gonna have a dip now?"

Stupid shit like that.

But what we decided is good that at least I'm catching my mean voice getting all judgmental, and I'm telling it to stop. I don't want to be perpetually self-critical, no matter what my size. I'm not just indulging it and accepting it as normal.

You know, though, it's also okay that I'm confused and curious and cautious about my new body. 'Cause, you know, it's new. I'll need some time to adjust and re-relate, just like I've had to in the past. As long as I'm still working towards positivity, and my ultimate goal is peace, it doesn't matter what else happens along my path. Body acceptance is a process, and as I continue working on loving myself for who I am and seeing myself clearly inside and out, I'll ultimately silence that mean mean voice.

I definitely had this in my room when I
was like, eleven.

Shine In The Storm

You know what's funny?

The last nine months have been full of so much angst and stress and struggle and pain, you would think I'd wish them away if I could. Reading back over my blog, a truly torturous task I can only assume, you would guess that I regret every binge and setback and backtrack, but as I discussed with my therapist tonight, I don't think I do.

Actually, I know I don't.

Today, I peeked at my scale (that's a lie. I didn't peek, I just weigh myself every day) and I was 143.8, which happens to be the exact weight I tracked last August 3rd, the lowest weight I saw last year and the lowest weight I've seen since I was a teenager.

(Granted, this is probably because I've chosen under-eating over binging as a way to deal with Tree's illness, but this is either here nor there.)

It took me nine months to get back here, but you know what? I learned a lot in those nine months. I wouldn't give up that knowledge for anything. And too, if I had lost all my weight in one go and reached some ideal number on the scale in the space of a year or so, I know I never would have maintained it, because I never would have seen it for what it really was, as I never would have seen myself for what I really am.

I may have been able to get "skinny", but I wouldn't have gotten happy, and I can almost guarantee you I would have gained most if not all of the weight back before I would have righted myself.

If I ever could have.

See, living this past nine months as I have, working towards mental health while inhabiting a body I could feel (mostly) comfortable in, I've been able to work towards clarity. Mindfulness. Perspective. Appreciation. All these things that will make me stronger and more balanced as I continue losing weight and becoming the person I want to be. I've taken the time to face my demons and battle them back. I've paused, and breathed, and looked inward.

Yes, it's been hard. I've cried and bitched and moaned and torn myself up, wishing I was further along on this journey. But this time has given me the chance to grow, and accept, and change. I'm better for the things I've gone through over the last year or so. Without this time I don't think I'd ever be able to maintain a healthy lifestyle, because the habits wouldn't be coming from within. As I quoted Baron Baptiste last week, I needed to shift my inner viewpoint, not just my habits, in order for anything to stick.

My world has transformed, and I like it much better this way. I like myself much better this way. And if it had to take an extra nine months for me to get here, then so be it. 

Oh Narcissus, My Captain

I talk about myself a lot on this blog.

I mean, that's what having a blog is for, right? Talking about yourself? Introspection? Posting things you like? I think most blogs are entirely filled with me me me, all the time, I I I, stories about your life, your style or tastes or whatever, your mistakes and past and present and future wants, hopes, dreams, dog, cat, job, husband, girlfriend, vagina, face, problems. I don't know.

I guess the point of this post was just to acknowledge that yes, I know. I am a bit of a narcissist.

But it's hard.

I spend the majority of my time obsessing about my body. What I put into it, what I'm doing with it, how long I lift my leg, how much I chew, blahblahblah. So when I see changes, and of course I see them, I look at myself in the mirror 50% of the day, it's hard not to get excited and want to share them with the world.

You guys are my world.

GROUP HUG.

So, I want to talk about it. Want to share. Want to ramble about my reflection in the mirror and post pictures of what I see. But then I get all self-judgy, like, is it too much to post these shots or talk about this, is it way too narcissistic, don't I have better content to share?

You know me, always the critic.

But I guess I'm wondering, is it so bad? Obviously, I'm not narcissistic in the true DSM definition, I'm just you know...losing weight and stoked on it. Is that soooo awful? Can't I be proud? Isn't that allowed?

I don't know. I think so. As long as I'm not strutting around like, I'm so better than you look at me I'm such HOT FUCKING SHIT, I think it's okay to take a little time on the blog to be like hey, check this out, I'm doing awesome.

HEY! Check this out.

I'm doing awesome.

I've back to an official 50 pounds loss from where I was last January. I'm officially no longer overweight according to my BMI. I'm almost too skinny for my skinny jeans.

And I finally see the difference.

Well, almost.

Scotland Yards of Ireland Issues

I was trying to find writing inspiration last night, and so I journeyed to my picture folder and found myself looking at photos from my first study abroad to Scotland the summer after my freshman year. I went with a group of students from Seattle for a theater festival in Edinburgh and I saw something crazy like 40ish plays in 20something days. It was one of the single most amazing experiences of my life.

But as I started going through the pictures, you know the very first complete memories that popped into mind?

During our first few days there, two things happened.

1) The very first night, we had gotten pizza and were chatting around the kitchen table. One of the girls interrupted me when I was telling a story and said something, I don't even remember WHAT it's been so many years, but along the lines of "Oh my god Taylor, you're loud!" or "be quieter!" or "you're screaming!" or some variation. I mean, we were drinking! So I shut my mouth like a fucking child and didn't talk for twenty minutes.

2) I was a nineteen year old know-nothing about alcohol, and I ordered the only beer on the menu I recognized at the first bar we went to---a Budweiser. Someone made the mistake of telling me that the bartender made fun of me for this, and I obsessed about that all night. And I'm sure everyone was like dude, shut up about the bartender.

I know right? I know. Sadness. I did better, for the most part, the rest of the trip, at least to my recollection, with containing my crazy.

It's a reoccurring theme in my life. Obsessing over what people think of me, to the detriment of my enjoyment of fabulous, once in a lifetime events.

Or not taking full advantage of these chances because of anxiety about being accepted by the group, or not having fun, or not having the energy because of my weight, or not being capable enough in some way or cool enough or mature enough or something. And then regretting not participating when it comes down to it.

That's what happened all too often on my second study abroad trip, three months in Belfast, Northern Ireland when I was twenty.

Look at me, hiding my chins
behind my cider.

If I were to pick out two memories from our first few nights there, they would be these:

1) When I rejected the invitation to hang out with the girls on my floor, and I never got invited again.

2) When I rejected the invitation to go hiking the first weekend with the group because I was too afraid I'd be fat and slow and make everyone wait for me, and I still look at everyone's pictures and wish I had seen that view.

There are other times on that trip that I pulled the same types of behaviors, nights I didn't go out to the pubs because I felt too fat or boring, days I couldn't muster the energy to participate in conversations because I felt like I didn't belong.

It makes me sad to think back on the amazing opportunities I had over the course of my life, and think that I didn't truly enjoy them the way that I should have, because I was too wrapped up inside my own head, a dark place at the time. Study abroad, college in general, even high school.

But what can you really do? I could fixate on the moments I missed out on, the things I didn't do and the memories I wish I had, or I could try to move past that and focus on all the awesome ones I do have. Of which there are A LOT. Both trips were two of the best times of my life, and I cannot even begin to catalogue the incredible nights I had. So why sit here and remember the most painful moments when I can remember the happy ones?

The past is the past and it makes you who you are. Every picture I have is a part of my story, and when I tell the whole thing some day it will be more interesting because of the good and the bad, the beautiful and the painful. I keep reminding myself not to regret, and of course it applies here.

I don't have to be a masochist. When I look at all my old photos, I don't have to let the bad memories resurface first.

Perfection and Passion

I can't expect everything to be perfect.

This is my realization of the day. I had an appointment with my drug doctor today, and the crux of it is, I'm not 100% happy right now. Things are feeling kind of...stagnant. And the question I'm asking myself is, should I be? Should a bunch of little pills be making me totally, completely, all-consumingly blissful?

Nope.

I have to work at happiness, too. I have to put in some effort, and do more. No, I don't need to put tons of pressure on myself and pile on the goals, and I need to calm my tits, but I do need to do more that makes me happy and feel good. And less that makes me...not.

Anti-depressants are supplemental, they're not all-powerful. I think a part of me is almost waiting for some switch to flip until I'm really ready to make the final change and charge towards being the kind of person I think I can be. Till I'm perfect. This super productive, impressive, yoga-fied goddess, on the go, full of energy, positive and powerful. I keep thinking the right combo of drugs in the right dosage will kick in and turn me into some mighty mistress of awesome, but the only thing that will turn me into that person is me, and my willpower.

(I should really read that damn book.)

But you know, I also don't have to be that person, right? Not totally and completely. It's okay to be who I am just naturally part of the time too, which is a kind of a lazy, self-involved, goofy homebody.

But only some of the time...

I think a lot of it comes down to passion, really. Rediscovering it, redirecting it. I know I'm a passionate person, I see it in the way I act and love and live, but all too often I let those passions drift towards the unhealthy, the indulgent, the detrimental, and away from the nurturing and the challenging. Because of fear, of course, and because I like the safe and the familiar.

And I'm lazy.

It's just so much easier to be lazy.

Whenever I try for something, I try for perfection. It's my ultimate problem, I've discussed it often in therapy. I always have this image in my head of the best way things could be, the best person I could be. I make plans and I make schedules, I fantasize, I imagine a world where this perfect me achieves this perfect ideal and things are so much happier then. That ultimate goal is never going to be attainable, so when I try and try and you know, fail as I am inevitably going to, I get frustrated and disappointed and I spiral into self-loathing.

I'm incredibly predictable.

You've seen this before, if you've been reading my blog long enough.

And this happens with everything.

So what is it that I'm waiting for? The perfect combination of motivation and happiness to launch me into...what? A disconnected yogi who meditates all day, never goes online at night, drinks nothing but water and tea and reads until her eyeballs fall out of her skull?

Who says I have to be that person?

Baby steps, folks. I can mix good habits with the more indulgent. I can find myself some balance. That's what yoga's all about anyway, balance. Not perfection. Not forcing yourself into habits that don't suit you yet, straining to find some sort of meaning amongst a Spartan life.

Not that there's not something to be gained in all these goals and challenges I've set for myself, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that perhaps my motivation for it and my methods aren't the best right now. Maybe I don't have to be the best. And I don't have to be perfect.

Freedom and Weightlessness

One way to think about losing weight is to think of it as shrinking. To think of it as losing yourself, bit by bit, weighing less, becoming less, lighter and lighter until you're practically air being whisked away by the wind.

Some people want to become weightless.

But I prefer to think of it a different way.

I'd rather think of losing weight as actually getting more solid. Building strength up so I'm steel instead of something fragile and broken letting pounds weigh me down. I'm not losing them, I'm letting go of them, setting them free, releasing them from my soul and from my body and I'm all the stronger for it, not the weaker or the lighter.

I'm losing weight, yes, becoming lighter literally, but that doesn't mean I'm losing any part of myself. I'm not becoming weightless, I'm becoming solid and grounded.

The less of me there is, the more of me matters.

Every bit that's left is going to count.

Deep thoughts for a Saturday morning.

25 Things To Remind Yourself To Do At 25

Thought Catalog had a great article yesterday, listing things to remind yourself to do when you're 25.

Hey! I'M 25! How fortuitous.

Some of them struck me as particularly apt at this juncture in my life.

5. Quit your job after one year if you’re miserable and find a new job. If you’ve learned everything you possibly can at the company, there is no room for growth. Your 20’s are about splatter painting your resume with experience and skills—not wasting time tapping away the keys at a job that’s making you cough up drool. Get out of there.

6. Don’t mistake comfort for happiness. Comfort can sometimes just be a more pleasant word for fear.

16. Respect yourself enough to walk away from anything that no longer aids you, develops you or makes you happy. 

 21. Wear the bizarre things in your wardrobe that you’re saving for some special occasion on a random Tuesday. That funky bow-tie with the polka dots, the dress made entirely out of glitter sequins, the shoes covered in spray paint.

25. Make a giant mistake: staying at your first job post-grad longer than you should, almost marrying a guy you know is absolutely not right for you. Maybe move across the country to Los Angeles and work at In-And-Out Burger while you’re trying to get some eyes on that screen play you wrote. These will be the experiences that will remind you that even at 25, you are still worthy of getting slapped around a bit by life. That you still have so much more to learn. 

Friday food for thought.

In This Skin

The ultimate goal here is to be comfortable in my own skin, a phrase that's been overused so much in self-help and weigh loss literature it's nearly lost its meaning.

What I personally mean by it is that I want to feel at ease saying what I think, doing what I feel, and acting how I want without the mean, critical voice inside me worrying how other people will react, what they're thinking about me, if they're judging me. I want to feel conviction in, well, how I feel, and not always question my own emotions and thoughts because I'm too insecure to be sure of what I really believe. I want to live my life under my own power and not constantly let the opinions of others dictate my actions. I want to stand up for what I believe to be right, even when it's hard. I want to be myself, always, without fear of reprisal.

I want to move and bend and twist without feeling like I'm inhabiting the shell of a stranger. I want to strut down the street with confidence, feeling every muscle and bone working together in perfect harmony. I want to look in the mirror and see my soul shining back at me through my eyes and feel connected to every bit of me, inside and out.

I feel like I may be starting to get there, bit by bit. There are moments where I still feel entirely disconnected, but others where I sink into myself in a way that's unfamiliar and yet like coming home, and I do think I can live happily in this new shape for awhile, and feel comfortable in this skin.

This shrinking skin.

Things I Do That I Stole

I'm a kleptomaniac.

In my life, I've hung out with a lot of clever people. And these clever people do and say clever things. And somehow, over the course of our friendships or associations, I absorb these habits, and then I steal them. I could try to stop, but they honestly come out unconsciously, and...I don't want to.

But I figure if I confess them, it makes it less bad, right?

Right!

Things I Do That I Stole

1) My freshman college BFF (the one I am no longer friends with) used to say "a of all, blahblahblah, b of all, blahblahblah", and I totally adopted that as my own. I think it's hilarious.

2) My ex-boyfriend, the Ass, (he of the failed birthdays), used to use a certain hand signal to indicate "me too", and I have found myself doing this years after we broke up. Let me see if I can describe it accurately. If my mouth is full, or I need to be quiet for some reason, and I want to agree, I tap on my chest twice with a fist and flash two fingers like a peace sign. So gangsta, right? I kind of hate myself every time I do it, since it was his thing and it's dumb, but I do it before I even think about it.

3) A lot of my mannerisms come from my mother. My laugh, which often ends with a drawn out "aahhh". My tendency to dance. Facial expressions. It's cool, it's genetic.

4) Dress a little hippie-chic, stolen from my BFF. I crib her style, and she cribs mine. (SO GANGSTA.) I wore a shirt out a few weeks ago, and she bought it on her phone before we hit the bars. That's friendship.

5) Say "note to self: self, blahblahblah", "bitca", "troll logic" and any number of other things, all stolen from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Whedonslang is gold.