Perception, Part 2: The Mirror Can't Talk

Yesterday, I shared some lessons I learned about perception: what others assume about a person or situation based on what they observe or are told.

Today, I want to talk about how we see ourselves.  And how it might change your life.

Recently, I became aware of Project Semicolon and its beautiful, ambitious, faith-based mission to decrease acts of suicide and self-harm among people dealing with depression and other mental health issues.  Although I've never explicitly dealt with depression, I've had some very dark pages in my life.  Had I made some different choices, I know that my life could be very different right now.  I also know that there is still a stigma surrounding mental health, especially among the Christian community.  There's this awful idea that it's "all in your head" and that you can "pray it away".  I'm not doubting that God heals.  Believe me, I'm one of those folks who enjoys tent revivals and healing meetings, and I've seen some pretty amazing stuff.

But.  BUT.

I also know enough to know that God works in many ways, and that some people's path to healing involves medication, treatment, therapy, a holistic approach and/or surgery. And maybe somethings else.

Friendship.

I say all of that to share a little experiment undertook last week.  I asked my social media friends - many of whom I am no longer close with in "real life" - to share their honest perception of me.  In a word, a phrase, a memory.  It wasn't a bid for flattery, though I admit I was hoping that some nice things would be said.  I heard back from about a dozen and a half people, ranging from family to folks I haven't seen in over a decade.  Their responses surprised me.

Yes, many of them said "nice" things, but what interested me the most was that no one said "Christian", "writer", "mom" or "plus-size" - the four words I find I use to describe myself all the time.  Other folks distilled their impressions of me into words like "real", "frank", "bubbly", and "accepting" (that one surprised me).  An old friend from high school relayed a few touching, nostalgic thoughts, but the phrase that stands out to me is "you took the high road".

That's weird, because I don't see myself that way.  Not really.  I'd use the words I mentioned above, and I'd add "selfish", "talented", "intelligent", "perceptive" and probably "articulate".  I'd add "needy", "introverted", "anxious", "hurting", "guilty" and "thoughtless".  
We are often our own worst critics.  Isn't that what they say?  In asking my friends this potentially loaded question, I learned that the way most of them perceive me is very, very different from the way I see myself.  

I realized that I want to live the way they see me.  Not the way I see myself.  They see in me light, and strength, and optimism.  I don't just want to be seen that way; I want to truly be that way.  I want to see myself that way.  Not only because those things are all good things, but because, as a Christian, I believe those things reflect Christ in me.  All of those attributes are not unique to religious people, of course, but, for me, they are an outward sign of inward hope.  

I didn't think that such a simple request on social media would impact me as much as this has.  I mentioned Project Semicolon earlier because I am hoping that anyone reading this - anyone struggling with self-harm or depression - might be encouraged by knowing how people see them.  That their lives matter.  That losing them really would make a negative impact on the world around them.  I'm not saying that hearing "I think you're special" is going to magically cure people of self-image issues.  But I know that those words have power, and positivity matters.  

From memeblender.com.

On a side note, one of my friends answered my question with the word "cats" and it made me laugh.  She was totally accurate, of course, and I know I've styled myself as a cat lady since Thor wound up on our doorstep, but yes, in a word, I suppose I can be described as "cat" - craving solitude, needy, faithful, somewhat critical, tending towards vanity, fun to curl up with (when I'm in the mood), and polarizing.

I like seafood, too.

#CATS.

Thigh Gap Vs. Thigh Clap

By now, you've heard the phrase "thigh gap", right?  It is yet another nearly impossible goal for women to aim for as they attempt to lose enough weight and work out enough so that, when they stand with their knees together, their thighs do not touch.  For the sake of beauty, of course.

Thigh gap will get you likes on Instagram.  Thigh gap will not do much else.  It, of course, will not land you a great-paying job or earn you an education.  It will not "snag you a man" or encourage people to respect and admire you.

(Please ignore the punctuation error in the above
image from someecards.com.) 

I don't have thigh gap.  I mean, I did when I was like four, but it wasn't a thing back then, so whatever.  I have what I like to refer as "thigh clap".  Regardless of my weight, my thighs rub together when I walk.  That's the way many women are built.  Our legs, they cheer us on.  They move us.  Sometimes they look appealing in skinny jeans.  Sometimes they don't.  Some of us live in A-line skirts to hide our thighs, and some of us embrace them with jeggings and cut-off shorts.  Meghan Trainor says boys like bigger girls, right?  

(Please do not get me started on how disappointed I am with the twisted message she is sending a whole generation.  I don't have time for that post now.)

Most people who know me are aware that I've struggled with my weight most of my life.  There have been various reasons for it, and I can blame anything from heredity to asthma to gluttony to flat-out apathy, but shifting the blame never made me feel better, nor did it even help me become healthier.  Like many women, I've suffered through the rollercoaster of fluctuating weight.  I have "fat" clothes and "not-as-fat" clothes.  I've fit into everything from a size 6 to a size 14 and a small to an extra-extra large.  I've loved my reflection; I've hated it.  I've scornfully skimped on calories and I've furtively embraced them like a clandestine lover.

To combat the "skinnier is better" rhetoric, plenty of body acceptance movements have emerged.  Women purposely post photos of themselves, proudly wearing clothing they "shouldn't".  Companies have launched campaigns designed to showcase curvier and heavier body types.  A size 22 model has been signed to a major label.  Catchy pop songs talk lasciviously about thick booties and sexy, wide hips.

But what's it all for?  Celebrities we love - especially curvy ones - continue to photoshop their own images on social media.  Fat kids still get mocked on the playground.  Heavier men and women still have to pay an extra $2 for larger sizes.  And we (me included) still buy Spanx!  I admit that I am sometimes one of the naysayers who doubts when seeing an image of an obese person insisting he/she is in "perfect health".  Yet then I feel guilty, thinking that it's not my place to judge.  But am I judging?  Or am I concerned?  Am I relieved?  Am I justifying my own appearance my comparing it to another's?  

I - as a petite, plus-sized woman - still feel shame when I have to pull on my "fat pants".  I still berate myself when I feel that I eat too many calories in a day.  I still throw some serious side eye when I see the teens in the mall sporting their itty-bitty crop tops and their high-waisted shorts.  I still struggle in the knowledge that my husband loves me and wants me, regardless of how I see myself.  I constantly walk the line between wanting to love my body exactly as it is - and wanting to force it to change so I feel better about it.  It's a daily battle.  Even when I feel beautiful in the morning - my hair is bouncy, I'm trying a new lip color, or I'm sporting my favorite chunky shoes - when I see a woman I perceive as more beautiful than me, I feel like shriveling up.  

I hate it.

I hate feeling, in my mind, like I am constantly in competition with other women.  It doesn't even make sense.  What do I gain?  What do I prove?  Does her beauty diminish mine?  Do I lose value in her presence?  It isn't even something I consciously do.  Thoughts just pop into my head, and I realize I'm focusing more on what the girl in the Starbucks line is wearing than I am about the cute little baby in my stroller, or the blessings in my life.

Worst of all, I still seem to think that God's love for me depends on my appearance.

Even seeing that thought actually typed out makes me sick.

The Creator of the Universe, who loved me enough to send his Son to die for me - is actually judging me based on the size pants I wear?

It's funny because it's true.
Image from someecards.com.

More likely, his heart is breaking because I am letting my figure affect my joy and peace.  More likely, his desire is for me to make healthy choices that allow me to enjoy his creation more.  More likely, he wants me to know that he made me the way he did for a reason.  And that he gave me the ability to make decisions that positively impact my health and my self-image.  

He gave me legs so I could walk and run.  And become healthier.  

He just wants to walk alongside me.  And he doesn't care in the least if my thighs touch or not. 

Yay, God!

Look.  It's nice to hear, but the point of this post is not for people to feel obligated to tell me I'm pretty.  In some people's eyes, I'm sure I am.  Others see me as overweight, or they see large pores, or split ends, or calloused heels.  They see cellulite or ragged fingernails.  Okay.  Deep down, I do know that I am beautiful.  In many ways.  It's a shame that the same society that scorns women who don't meet the accepted standard of beauty also mocks those with the audacity to openly consider themselves beautiful.  So, I can think it, and I should act like it, but I shouldn't say it, because then I'm selfish and vain.  

I don't know if there will ever be any kind of real resolution on this issue.  I'd like to say that "healthy" is the sexiest kind of body, but even that has a million definitions to a million people.  I'm just deciding that I have to love my body for both its current limitations as well as its potential.  There are a thousand words to describe it - curvy, pale, soft, short, basic, cute, chubby, zaftig (that's my favorite) - but only one that actually matters:

Mine.

And it's the only one I get.

It's time to be grateful for that, no matter what society tells me I should be wearing, or weighing, or eating, or thinking.  I am grateful for my body.

And I Would Walk 500 Miles...

...or at least, you know, jog for about three.

It was The Big Day.  As Pittsburgh welcomed the huge, slightly ridiculous but really adorable floating Rubber Duckie during its Festival of Firsts, people like me - first-time runners - were wondering what this 5K thing was all about...and, maybe, if it was worth it.

Oh, it was.

When I had signed up for the race several months ago, I didn't really know if I could do it.  Like many people (artsy ones in particular), I really struggle finishing projects that I start.  and this was a really big project for me.  I've mentioned in the past that I was diagnosed with asthma when I was a child and dealt with a myriad of respiratory problems during my youth.  Although I haven't had many issues as of late, I didn't know what starting a real exercise program would do to me.  

Turns out, it's actually been great for me.  Since I had started out very gradually, strolling for a half-hour on my lunch break, then slowly increasing it to a 50-minute power walk, I've built up my endurance.  I still need my albuterol sometimes, mostly during seasonal changes or extreme weather (ultra-high humidity and really brisk mornings are hard - and this past week has been particularly difficult), but most days I'm fine without it.  My bigger concern was that I had gotten drastically off-track regarding my Couch to 5K program.  That, coupled with an upper respiratory infection that had been clinging for the pat week, led me to the decision that I would complete the race, but as a walker, not a runner.  And I was okay with that.

Then something crazy and wonderful and magical happened.  As I was in Oakland, in my beloved city on an absolutely picture-perfect day, surrounded by a sea of people in brightly-colored Nikes and battered track pants, I realized that I had no reason to be nervous.  I guess I'd imagined that all 15,500 runners and walkers would be sleek and trim, with calves to kill for and perfectly toned arms.  I thought there was such thing as a "runner's body", but guess what?  There isn't! 

There were heavy-set women in their thirties; skinny, bearded old men who wobbled a bit as they ran; tall, athletic college students who hardly seemed to sweat; scrawny pre-teen girls; lithe, flexible twenty-somethings whose running shorts were a little too short; and young mommies and daddies jogging alongside their children.  And they were all there for one reason: to finish the race.

My former roomie Megan sent me a message encouraging me to do my best, whether it was by walking or running, but, she said, there is something very special about being in a crowd like that - you never know what you are capable of.

She was right.

I started the race with my husband at my side and we were walking briskly.  Almost immediately, I slid into an easy gait and the first mile was down - no sweat. I couldn't believe it.  I hadn't gone for a jog in probably almost three weeks, but there I had it.  Mile one in about fifteen minutes.  And I felt great!

Mile two started with a bit of a hill, and many of the runners and walkers around me slowed a bit.  I did the same, as did Ross, and I lost sight of him.  As I began to struggle a bit for breath, for the first time, I focused on the sounds around me.  The constant slapping of shoes against pavement.  The ragged breathing of the beefy guy behind me.  The nearby "good job, keep going" of the volunteers offering water just up ahead.  The members of Duquesne University's marching band rocking "Eye of the Tiger" to my right.  (No joke - you ever hear that played on a tuba?  So much awesome.)  The day was gorgeous and it was a strange experience to be running the path I had driven so many times when I worked at the Starbucks in Oakland.  I wanted to just gaze up at the bright blue sky, enjoy the crisp air and the sunshine, but I forged ahead.

Mile three, I swear, was going to be the death of me.  The fact that I had not stuck with the Highmark program was now painfully clear as I tried to measure my breathing, ignore the slight cramping in my side, and the sweat that was cascading down my neck and back.  On the sidewalk, here and there, were officials, family members, and volunteers.  I saw two older women who didn't appear to be there to support anyone in particular, so they were cheering for every single person who jogged by.  I thought that was great!  I played songs in my head to keep my feet moving.  I finally settled on "Overcomer", a recent Christian hit that has encouraged me in plenty of ways.  And my feet kept going.  My arms kept pumping.  My breath kept coming.  My heart kept beating.

As I rounded the corner, hitting the three mile-marker and seeing the finish line on my left, I felt tears well up in my eyes.  I had little breath to spare, but I said, out loud, "Mom, I'm doing it!  Mom!  I did it!" and felt that I had defeated my own fears.  I know she would have told me I was crazy (maybe I am).  And asked if I'd taken my inhaler (I did).  Then offered to make my favorite dinner as a victory meal (her oven-breaded chicken, wilted spinach salad [with bacon!], and great big gobs of gooey mac and cheese [with bacon!]).

As soon as I crossed the finish line, raising one weak arm in the air, I felt a wave of nausea overwhelm me and thought, "I am going to vomit here in the park.  With thousands of people watching me.  Oh, my God, I am about to be THAT person."  Thankfully, though, the feeling passed almost immediately and I began to search through the throng of exhausted runners for my husband.  He finally found me, and I noticed that he was holding a banana and an Eat 'n' Park Smiley cookie - and neither one was for me!

"Priorities," he said with a grin.

As our bodies recovered from the happy torture we had just endured, we made our way down to see that yellow duck in the river.  Was it art?  Well...no, probably not.  But man, it was cute.  And it seemed to make the real ducks jealous.  The mallards floating by must have wondered why they, residents of the city rivers for years, had never been given any type of party at all.  We took some cute selfies and wondered how many peoples' pictures we ended up in.  Then we headed to the new coffee shop in Carnegie to celebrate our victory (i.e., survival).

Ultimately, I learned that I completed the race in 39:22, giving me about a twelve and a half minute mile.  I was fairly impressed with myself and thought - how much better could that number have been had I stuck with the program?!  Still - pretty great for an overweight asthmatic!

I haven't run since the Great Race.  Sadly, I pulled my hamstring and it is taking some time to heal.  Not to mention, the recent change in weather has been hard on my asthma and I've been having flare-ups recently.  Still, I'm bundling up at work and walking on my lunch break.  I've maintained my weight.  My PCP was proud of me at my recent wellness check when she learned of my weight loss and regular exercise schedule.  I'm planning on running the Race for the Cure in May to honor several friends, so I'd better get cracking, here.  Soon!

Thank you to all of you who cheered me on  - whether you really thought it could do it or not!  If you want to read my story from start to finish, you can click here, here and here.  I had the honor of sharing my journey via my employer's blog, too - I hope that it was a message of encouragement to everyone who got to read it!

(Currently, the internet isn't letting me post pictures on this blog so you can click on the links above if you want to see some.  I'll update as soon as I can figure out the issue!  -RG 11:00 AM 10/26/13)

The Numbers Game

I hand-wrote (!) this message yesterday during some down time at work (days before holiday weekends are generally very slow).  After talking with my relatively new artsy-nerdy friend Emily over coffee this morning, I felt it very important to post this today.  I am certain that there are a lot of women, and probably a lot of men, who are dealing with the same feelings as me, and this is something that needs to be addressed right away.

As I inch (literally) closer to my weight and health goals, I realize that I have reached a very dangerous place.  It has nothing to do with BMI or blood pressure or Daily Recommended Allowances.  It has everything to do with identity and self-image.

I have come to the jarring realization that I am on the brink of defining myself almost exclusively by my appearance.  And that terrifies me.

It's hard for me to admit this because I am a huge advocate of teaching the next generation, young women in particular, of the value of inner beauty.  It would be easier to pretend I was not having this struggle, to simply smile and say "thank you" when people notice how different I look now.  I hate what the media does to the value of womanhood.  I hate that we, as a culture, accept the cheapened version of femininity - the image of women as sexual objects, the condemnation of stay-at-home moms and working moms alike.  I hate that, as I myself eye my scale, I have begun to base my worth on how low the number dips.  The lower it goes, a little voice tells me, the greater my value.

I know this way of thinking is wrong on multiple levels.  First and foremost, it's shallow.  To assign a value to any person based on appearance alone is thoughtless, foolish, and often cruel.  How do we learn such injustice?  Look to Hollywood, full of scripts in which the well-meaning loser guy gets the gorgeous girl, but rarely the reverse.  Look to magazines, full of countless glossy pages of women so airbrushed they hardly look real.  (Can I also say here how much it pains me to see spreads in which the "affordable" clothing pieces top $400?  That's neither here nor there, of course, but man, that gets me riled up!  Moving on...)  My heart sinks when I think of all the truly talented, hard-working people who will never attain the "success" they desire because they don't have the right "look".  We are often chided not to judge a book by its cover, but it's something we do on a daily basis, often subconsciously.

And it hurts.

Another reason that this line of thinking is wrong is that it's simply untrue.  The Bible says that every person conceived has value, and nowhere does God indicate that any person is more important than another because of appearance alone.  In fact, 1 Samuel 16:7 indicates that God is speaking through the prophet with these beautiful and encouraging words: "But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him [a brother of David]. The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”  That's pretty darn clear that, although he designed our looks, they don't indicate value before God!  We don't have to think, act, speak or look a certain way before he gives us his love!

Yet another argument against these thoughts is a less profound, but equally important one: it robs me of my joy.  Instead of enjoying a hearty meal, I find that I eye it warily, mentally calculating the "damage" it may cause.  I have been, without even realizing it, labeling myself a "good" or "bad" girl depending on the amount of calories I've consumed and expended each day.  Why have I been punishing myself with insults when a chocolate craving attacks me or I don't count out each and every tortilla chip in a serving?

I don't exactly know.  In fact, the thing is, I absolutely know better.  I have both Bible verses and other words of encouragement to speak over myself.  I have a husband, family, and friends who loved me when I weighed almost 170 pounds and they'll also love me when I reach my goal of 126 pounds.  I'm not a model or an actress; I'm not in the public eye and therefore required to look a very specific way.  (I mean, come on, people, I wear scrubs to work.  Comfy, but hardly glamorous.)  I'm not trying to "shake my thang" in a bikini on a beach to drop jaws.  Even in regards to signing up for the Great Race, I am not trying to win - just to finish.  So why is this obsession getting the best of me?

I wish I could say.  All I know is that I am not alone.  While I do not have an eating disorder, I am aware that I don't have a healthy relationship with food right now.  I do wonder - would I feel the same way about myself if I'd been born tall and lanky, with a boyish figure?  Or with dark skin and kinky hair?  Or even shorter than I am now, with golden skin and almond-shaped eyes?  Do all women truly compare themselves to others?  Worse, do they compare themselves to those magazine models who don't even exist?  Are we all "just 10 pounds" or "just 4 inches" away from accepting ourselves as beautiful?

If my experience is any indication, I'm going to say that no, we're not.  You don't automatically gain self respect when you lose weight.  Oh, you find yourself more confident, more comfortable, but if you've developed negative habits before you lost the weight (or kicked smoking, or left an abusive relationship, or made whatever life change you needed to in order to be more healthy), you'll hang onto those habits until you realize they're hurting you more than the unhealthy conditions did.  Emily told me this morning that the things that wake her up at night aren't reminders of the physical abuse she had suffered - although that hurt, too.  She says what troubles her most are the psychological effects - including her own self-image, damaged by relationships that were not right for her.  

As with many of my more pensive posts, I don't exactly presume to have an answer.  I just wanted to be vulnerable and put this out there.  I strongly desire to be a good role model for the young ladies in my life - my friends' daughters, my nieces, the girls in my church's youth group.  And, when the time comes, for my own daughter (as bleak as things look right now, somewhere in my heart I still believe I will have a little girl someday).  It's the humanity of people who seem to be invincible that makes you realize no one's perfect, and although I don't claim to be a hero, my writings have brought me a lot of comments along the lines of "you're so strong".  

I don't feel strong right now, but I do feel like it's okay to admit that.