A is for Atheist

I imagine some day one of my son’s friends will mention something about church and that will probably lead my son to ask why we don’t go. The answer is simple enough: I don’t believe in god. Of course, I can’t imagine that will be the end of the conversation. He’ll probably want to know why I don’t believe in god and maybe even what I do believe in. This is my attempt to answer that.

My Baptism, July 1975

I was baptized Catholic. I don’t have many early childhood memories, but many of the ones I do have revolve around the church. I loved church when I was a kid. I don’t remember much about the sermons, but I loved the music and Sunday school and getting to play with my friends after and eat donuts. I don’t remember having donuts except for at church, so that was a pretty big deal. I remember Halloween parties in which we dressed as our favorite Biblical figure and Christmas parties, and one year I even got to be Mary on the Christmas parade float.

A page from my “We Celebrate the Eucharist” book.

I was actually a bit obsessed with Mary and little baby Jesus. Since birth I had been called by my middle name, but I even went through a phase where I wanted to be called by my first name – Mary – because it was the same name as the mother of sweet little baby Jesus whom I loved so. I don’t remember caring or thinking much about the grown up Jesus who died for our sins, but I loved singing about little baby Jesus “asleep on the hay” and smiling at The Little Drummer Boy. I also had not one but two Kid’s Praise albums which I played to death. I can still sing many of those songs Psalty, his wife Psaltina, and their kids Melody, Harmony, and Rhythm sang to me.

My First Communion, June 1983

I was also obsessed with heaven. My dad died when I was four, and I couldn’t wait to get to heaven and meet my daddy. Until that day, though, I had him as a guardian angel. Throughout my childhood, I could feel him near me. I could feel him standing behind me with his hand on my right shoulder, comforting me, guiding me. I prayed to him more than I ever prayed to god. God had the whole world to deal with, but my daddy just had me and my siblings and my mom.

I can no longer feel my father. I don’t remember exactly when that feeling left me, but I continued to pray to him into adulthood. And, unlike god, my father actually answered my prayers. One day in high school while I was living with my sister, we were desperate for money, and we prayed to my father for help.The next day there were checks in the mailbox for both of us from Social Security where they had underpaid us over the years. We were convinced our dad had made those checks appear.

My father isn’t the only dead loved one to answer my prayers. My brother died when I was 24. One day I was at Kmart buying bedding, and I could only find one pillowcase to match the sheets I liked. I tore apart the shelves looking for its match. Silly as it was, I closed my eyes and asked my brother to produce the matching pillowcase for me. I opened my eyes and there it was. Another time my nephew had tried but failed to win a green teddy bear from one of those claw machines at a local video store. Then out of nowhere the machine sprang back to life, the claw picked up the green teddy bear and dropped it in the chute for my nephew to grab. His mother and I were both convinced that it was my brother who procured that bear for my nephew.

But was it?

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Here is where I become less eloquent. Here is where things become less clear. I can’t trace my path to disbelief. I believed once and I don’t believe now, but the journey from one to the other is lost.

I do know I stopped believing in religion – stopped believing in the Bible – long before I stopped believing in god. Like Emma Thompson, I was “offended by some of the things said in the Bible” and deeply upset by the psychological pain caused to so many by it and its adherents.

The most obvious example is the gay thing. Long before I heard the oft-quoted Leviticus 18:22, it was obvious to me that the church would not approve of my liking girls. Yet I knew I didn’t deserve to go to hell for it. I knew no loving god would punish me for it. So I knew that, if the Bible really said being gay was wrong – that I would go to hell for it, well, then it was the Bible that was wrong. But it wasn’t enough for me to know it – I wanted to be able to prove it to others. So I decided to actually read the Bible. I mean, the truth was, I hadn’t read it. Sure, I had read along with certain passages during mass or Sunday school, but surprisingly little of the Bible gets explored that way.

I was at first shocked then infuriated by all the other things Leviticus said not to do that everyone I knew did all the time – like eating pig. So being gay was a sin but so was eating bacon? Then why did everyone harp so much on the gay thing but let the bacon thing slide? You can’t just pick and choose which parts you want to believe and which parts you don’t!

And that was probably my first problem with religion – the way people cherry-picked the Bible, both what parts they want to follow and what parts they even bother to read. As Julia Sweeney notes in Letting Go of God, “For all those people who believe in the inerrancy of the Bible, or that every single word of the Bible is true . . . they can’t even have read the first two chapters of the Bible.” The story I was told as a child about Eve being created out of Adam’s rib? That’s part of the second creation story. In the first one, Adam and Eve are created at the same time. And those rules I was taught as a young child and told were the Ten Commandments? They are completely different from the rules chiseled into the stone tablets and actually called “The Commandments.” Not only were Christians inconsistent in they way the followed the Bible but the Bible itself was inconsistent.

It certainly was not the Truth.

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Once I accepted the Bible isn’t literal truth, I quickly decided there was no heaven or hell either. But for a while I still thought there was a god. Then there were the bigger, philosophical questions.

Ok, so THERE IS NO GOD.

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So, what do I believe? I believe that, improbable as it may seem, the checks and the pillowcase and the green teddy bear are coincidences.I believe I wanted to feel my dad around me because I was sad that he wasn’t. I believe that it’s human nature to search for signs that our lost loved ones still exist somewhere in some way because it’s just unbearable to think we’ll never get to see them again. I believe humans created an afterlife because they couldn’t accept the finality of death. But I believe this is it. This life. This is the only life any of us gets, and none of us knows how long it’s going to last . . . and that makes it sacred – holy. So respect it, cherish it, and enjoy it.

And while you’re at it, try to make it a better ride for others when you can. And have faith that you don’t need some invisible friend in the sky to do anything you dream. If you need something to believe in, believe in yourself.

P is for Parent

Last night, my wife and I attended the fourth session of PRIDE. PRIDE stands for Parent Resources for Information, Development, and Education. We are required to complete the PRIDE class in order to be eligible to foster/adopt a child. Tomorrow, we meet with our fertility doctor again. We have one attempt left at a biological child. One way or the other, our son will be a “big brother” by this time next year, and we will have another child to love.

I love being a parent – a mom. Obviously, I love my son. He is four now, and he is smart, funny, confident, sweet, and super-cute. He loves to cuddle and give kisses. He loves music. He excels at gymnastics and talks of being a Ninja Warrior when he grows up. I love his malapropisms, like “stunk” for “skunk” and “clause” for “pause.” I love his cinnamon roll belly button and the way he loves for us to try to “eat” it. I love the sound of his giggles and the way he grabs my face up in both his little hands and scream-growls things at me (in a funny way – not in a mean way). I love that he’s “all boy” but will still put on a pink boa and a princess crown and let you paint his nails. I love his generosity, the way he shares with us and other kids. I love how much he loves to help everyone with everything. And on and on I could go.

I love my son, but I also love what being a parent has done for me. It has healed a lifetime of hurt. My mother was an awful, bitter woman. She was negligent and sometimes cruel. She constantly compared me to my cousins who were prettier or better dancers or more loving and obedient. I never felt truly, unconditionally loved by her. As a child, I, as children do, blamed myself. I knew I must be deeply flawed for my own mother, who should love me best, to allow her lover to abuse me. I knew I must be simply unlovable. How could anyone else love me if my own mother didn’t? While years of therapy and the love and support of my sister and my wife helped me realize that I wasn’t inherently unlovable, I didn’t really feel the truth of that until my son was born. With each passing day, it became more and more apparent how much he adored me. Of course, I adored him and, really, it was the inevitability of our mutual adoration that enabled me to truly believe that the flaw was my mother’s – not mine.

My son makes me feel lovable AND helps me to love myself. He loves me. He doesn’t care that I’m fat or I have crooked teeth. He loves me. He doesn’t care that I’m lazy or I have obsessive thoughts. He loves me, regardless of my struggles with depression. He loves and accepts me just as I am, and he helps me remember that I should do the same.

Yes, I love being a parent and desperately want another child (or two?) to watch grow and blossom and become a fully-formed person with feelings and thoughts and personality all her own. But I also want to give my son the gift of a sibling. My sister is my best friend, and I feel blessed to have her in my life. So a sibling is the least I could do for my son for all he’s done for me. Wait – no. A sibling is the BEST I can do.

D is for Depressive

A disproportionate level of irrational anger. That is what I feel right now. I can feel my blood pressure rising. I’m having difficulty focusing. Why? Because my boss dumped a new project in my lap that I believe to be a pointless waste of time, and the work required is tedious and mind-numbing. And I just can’t bring myself to do it. Every time I try to take the first step, I have a nearly irresistible urge to just run outside and scream. But this project is not the issue. My anger is. Why can’t I just get over it like a normal person and get down to work? Maybe because I am not a “normal” person. I have a mental illness, Borderline Personality Disorder, of which one of the hallmarks is “inappropriate displays of intense anger or rage, and difficulties controlling anger.”

But the anger won’t last. It will first turn inward then mutate into hate – self-hate. What is wrong with me? Why am I so pathetic? Why can’t I just be normal? Why am I so lazy, selfish, childish, ill-humored, ugly, etc.? Why am I so worthless?

And there’s the heart of my depression for you. I feel like I bother people just by being alive. I feel like a burden to those I love.

I was first diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder while still in college, though in truth I think it developed in middle school and has roots going back to just 4-years-old. My father died when I was 4, the age my son is now. My mother just died in May, and so I am getting to witness first-hand a 4-year-old’s understanding – or lack thereof – of death. I know that if I died now, my son wouldn’t really understand. All he’d know is that mommy was always there for me, and now she’s gone away and won’t come back, and doesn’t she love me anymore? And so even though my dad died and that was certainly not his choice, I think my 4-year-old brain processed it as abandonment. In fact, I even remember thinking during my elementary school years that, if he had loved me enough, my dad could have beaten the cancer and stayed with me. But I just wasn’t enough for him.

Or my mother. She checked out when he did. She neglected me and began a pattern that repeated several times in my life – the main woman in my life leaving me for a man. First, my mom neglected me and let my stepfather abuse me. Then my sister, who had become my primary caretaker, left me for her boyfriend (later husband). In college, two different female lovers left me for men. And though my wife assures me constantly that she has no intentions of leaving me for anyone of any gender at anytime, there is a part of me that waits for the day she comes home and tells me she’s leaving me for some Tom, Dick, or Harry.

And so at 4 my intense fear of abandonment (a primary BPD symptom) and my feelings of worthlessness/never being good enough (a primary MDD symptom) began. But it wasn’t until the depression paralyzed me and made me non-functional in college that I was diagnosed. I had struggled with my emotions before, but this was my first debilitating episode. I’m not sure what triggered it. It was my last semester, and I think I may have just gotten overwhelmed by the huge change that was about to take place upon graduation. Suddenly, I couldn’t eat. That amplified my motion sickness, and I was taking two different classes that required travelling to museums, theaters, concert halls, etc. I found myself too sick – or too afraid of being sick – to go. I was sure I was going to fail. I couldn’t handle seeing my friends or even talking to them. I had a single that semester, and I would lock myself in my room and unplug my phone because I couldn’t even handle hearing the messages on my answering machine. I’d sleep fitfully. Then I’d become too antsy at the thought that they could just drop by and knock on the door, so I’d leave and pace alongside the railroad tracks away from campus and the lights of the town. I knew my behavior wasn’t normal, but I couldn’t stop it. Well, I could think of only one way to.

I had my sister come pick me up and take me back to her house in my hometown, hoping it would help. It didn’t. So I called the suicide hotline in the front of the phone book. That led to my first meeting with a psychiatrist, my diagnosis, a prescription for antidepressants, and a commitment to a short term residential unit, which I ended up leaving against medical advice. I opted to return to school with my meds and just see a counselor instead. I stabilized enough to finish up the semester, graduate, and continue living my life, but I’ve never really been the same since.

It’s hard to explain what depression really feels like to someone who doesn’t have it – it’s not just feeling sad or having the blues. Those are normal feelings, normal reactions to the loss of a loved one, relationship problems, or even stress at work. And they are temporary. My depression never really goes away. I have better days and worse days, but it’s always there, lurking.

For me, depression is worse than cancer. I was diagnosed with cancer (endometrial adenocarcinoma) in 2006, and I assure you that the emotional fallout of that was far worse than what I had to go through physically to eradicate the cancer from my body. Even after I was pronounced “cancer free,” the depression remained. And the cancer made me question everything – the very meaning of life itself. I was an English teacher, and before the cancer, it felt like what I did was of the utmost importance. You see, I saw myself as not just a teacher of English but a teacher of life. I began to feel like a fraud. And I began to “phone it in.” I began doing a shitty job, and it was noticed. It took two years of declining job performance, but I was finally called to the principal’s office, and I freaked out. I knew I had to change or I would be fired, and I knew I couldn’t change. My wife was on the other side of the country for work. I couldn’t bear her disappointment in me. I didn’t know what to do. I decided to make our garage airtight, sit in the car, and turn it on. I also planned to take the entirety of my recently refilled Ambien prescription just to be safe. But I called my sister. And she called my wife who was on the next plane home. This was followed by a trip to the ER, placement in a 30-day program, and a prescription for far better antidepressants at the maximum possible dose.

And I’m better than I was before. I quit teaching and am in some ways happier working my silly 9-5 office job. I make decent money. I have reliable car and a nice house. I have my devoted sister. I have my beautiful warrior wife and my awesome son. On a normal day, I’m actually pretty happy . . . but happiness and depression are not mutually exclusive.

When I’m in a down phase, I forget what happy feels like. All I know is it – the depression. Sometimes it’s like a separate entity from me. Sometimes I just see it as blackness. Sometimes I see it as Pitch from Rise of the Guardians . . .

. . . turning all my glittery, golden dreams into nightmares. Other times I see it as The Nothing from The Neverending Story . . .

. . . always waiting to pounce, driving out all light, happiness, and joy and replacing it not with bad things but with something far worse: nothing. Emptiness. Meaninglessness. Pointlessness. Hopelessness.

Luckily my son remains a shining light on my darkest days. But I fear there will come a day when I can’t see even his dazzling light. What will become of me then?

C is for Cancer

As I mentioned in my Bitch post, the crab that symbolizes Cancer could not be more fitting for me. I have this hard exterior that is difficult to penetrate and claws that hopefully frighten away any potential threats, but these are all defense mechanisms — “the world is a scary place to Cancer planets—they’re emotionally vulnerable, sensitive, and easily hurt.” I’m just trying to keep people from getting to my tender, delicate insides which can be so easily ripped apart and devoured.

Cancer is a water sign, and “Water Signs are emotional, empathetic, receptive and feel things deeply.” Water signs are also susceptible to mood swings, and I don’t know how much of it is my Cancerian nature and how much is my depression, but I am quite moody both in the sense that I am given to gloomy or sullen moods and in the sense that my moods can vary quickly and sharply. I tend to be very happy or very sad and can go from one extreme to the other in a heartbeat. And despite the fact that I try to practice an “attitude of gratitude” and really don’t have much to complain about, I am also prone to bouts of self-pity that quickly morph into bouts of self-hatred.

But my emotional and empathetic nature is also a big part of what makes me a good friend, sister, wife, and mother. I believe all of my friends and family would call me a good listener. In fact, my friend Dave one time said of me that when I’m talking with someone, I make him or her feel like the only person in the world. I can count my true friends – you know, the ones you’d rush over at 3am to help or comfort – on one hand, and I like it that way. I need it to be that way. I devote myself so fully to my friendships that a few intense friendships are all I can handle. Because my friendships are intimate and intense, there is almost nothing they could do that I couldn’t forgive and forget. My dearest friend from college (and my birthday twin!) and I went years without speaking, but when we finally met up again this spring it was as if not a day had passed.

Speaking of my birthday, my 39th was on June 27. While most people seem to want to go out for their birthdays, I happily spent most of the day in my own home with my sister and wife & son. But then “Cancer . . . is all about home.” Home is my favorite place to be and the only place I can be completely comfortable. Home is, of course, not a particular house, but wherever my heart — my wife and son — resides. My wife and I have been together 16 years, and I truly believe we will be together until the day one of us dies. Though I know they say no one expects to get divorced, I would be truly shocked if my wife and I ever split. Few things could shock me more.

Now I know that to some, hearing a female talk about having a wife screams “non-traditional,” but, except for having matching genitals, we are about as traditional a couple and a family as you can get. Though we both work outside the home, she is the primary breadwinner. She also takes care of the house and vehicles and lawn. She’s also the one to take our son fishing, play catch in the yard, and teach him the fundamentals of hockey. I, again true to my Cancerian nature, am the one to nurture his emotional needs, soothe him when sick or injured, and get him off to sleep at night. I am fiercely protective of him . . . and of her . . . and of my sister and my friends too. Though I often have a hard time standing up for myself and, like most Cancers, tend to avoid confrontation, come after my family or friends, and I will go all mama bear on your ass. But “Maternal instincts are typical of the Cancer.”

It is somewhat ironic for me that “The sun enters Cancer on or around June 21, at the summer solstice” because my favorite time of year is Halloween through Easter both because I hate the heat of summer and because I love all the traditions surrounding the holidays. One of my favorite phrases is every year as in every year I get one of those personalized Christmas ornaments from one of those little kiosks in the mall and every year we go to Halloween at the Y. Many of my favorite childhood memories come from such yearly traditions too – like the way my mom would allow us to open one present before midnight mass (which would always be a new dress to wear to mass) and then Santa would come while we were at church and we’d stay up until dawn opening presents and playing with our new toys, conveniently falling asleep just about the time my mom needed to get up to prepare Christmas dinner.

Traditional, home-loving, and emotional – that is the Cancer, and that is me.

B is for Bitch

Rebecca Birkman. I can still see her holding court in the elementary school playground, her pale pink sweater clinging to her already well-developed breasts, her hair teased tall like a tiara on top of her head then falling in tousled brown waves just past her shoulders. Back in 6^th grade, she was the queen bee. She knew it. We knew it. We allowed it. Yet behind her back, we called her “Bitchy Becky Birkman.” She was one of those girls with no filter, needlessly saying every mean thing that entered her brain – things we other girls may have been thinking about each other but had the common decency not to say aloud. She was spoiled, selfish, and arrogant.

I am nothing like Becky Birkman, so does everyone think I’m such a bitch?

My theory is that it is because I am aloof and seemingly lacking in compassion. I say seemingly lacking because anyone who really knows me knows that it is in my Cancerian nature to be quite empathetic; however, much like the crab that represents my birth sign, I have a tough shell that belies my true, tender nature. So when outwardly my response to someone’s tale of misfortune is a cool “bummer,” it is only because my delicate, depressed self would go insane if I allowed every ill in the world to seep in and affect me. So what seems like a cold, hard, indifferent persona is really just a defense mechanism for my overly-sensitive soul.

I am polite but unfriendly. I say “Good Morning” when I walk into the office each day, but I don’t ask how your weekend was or how you are doing unless I really care to know. (Huge pet peeve: people who use “how ya doin” as a greeting without even bothering to wait for the requisite “fine” let alone actually caring to know how you are really doing.) I loathe small-talk. I suck at it. I’m shy and backward around new people and tend to keep to myself. Somehow that reads as being “too good” to talk to people. Therefore, I am a stuck up bitch.

I’m honest. I don’t say needlessly cruel things to others. I’m not going to tell you your dress is hideous, but if you ask me if I like it, I’ll tell you I don’t. I’m a real bitch.

I don’t sugarcoat. In my job, I am in a supervisory position. I assure you that my standards aren’t extraordinarily high. I don’t expect proficiency, but if you can’t at least perform your job competently, you will know I am displeased. I’m an uptight bitch.

I have no poker face. If I’m angry, you’ll see it. Same if I’m sad. And I am a very emotional, moody person. I’m a crazy bitch.

I have no tolerance for stupidity. As they say, you can only make a mistake once. The second time it is a choice. My compassion has limits. If you keep making the same stupid choices, you deserve whatever negative consequence befalls you. I’m a cold-hearted bitch.

I’m not afraid to say no when others try to impose upon me. I’m a selfish bitch.

I’m not afraid to speak my mind, stand up for myself and others, share differing opinions. I’m a loudmouthed bitch.

And I’ve already established that I’m a fat bitch.

And much like the word fat, I, like many feminists, decided to call myself a bitch so that the word would have no power when someone else levied it at me — to, in fact, give it a new and positive connotation.

As my contemporaries over at Bitch Media (a nonprofit feminist media organization) put it “When it’s being used as an insult, ‘bitch’ is an epithet hurled at women who speak their minds, who have opinions and don’t shy away from expressing them, and who don’t sit by and smile uncomfortably if they’re bothered or offended. If being an outspoken woman means being a bitch, we’ll take that as a compliment.”

So though I may be nothing like Rebecca Birkman, I am a bitch and proud of it.

F is for Fatty

So why did I pick “fatty” as my number one descriptor? Simply because it’s the most obvious thing about me. And, truly, my fat has shaped my personality and outlook far more than it has shaped my body.

I minored in journalism in college, so I like to start with the who, what, when, where, why, and how of it all. Of course, the who is a given, so let’s start with the what. What is a fatty? A fatty is a fat person who is comfortable with being fat, who doesn’t constantly feel bad about herself because she doesn’t conform to society’s standard of beauty. The first sign of a true fatty is that he can call himself fat instead of some euphemism like “fluffy” or “pleasantly plump.” There’s nothing wrong with euphemisms – some like “curvy” are body-affirming, and I love that. But they can also be something you hide behind, and I generally don’t think that hiding is a good thing, especially not when you are hiding from yourself. And to call yourself fat also takes the power away from those who would do it to hurt you. To quote Fat Amy from Pitch Perfect, I call myself fat so “twig bitches . . . don’t do it behind my back.”

On a recent episode of Louie (which, surprisingly I don’t regularly watch though I’m a huge fan – pun intended – of his stand-up), a woman Louie is out on a date with delivers what some have called an “epic” rant about being a fat girl. You can read a transcript of it here and even scroll down and watch the scene.

The monologue was praised for being so relatable, and I certainly do relate with the way she begins: ” . . . you know what the meanest thing is you can say to a fat girl? ‘You’re not fat.’ I mean, come on, buddy . . .” You’re not being kind to anyone by denying the obvious. In fact, it’s kind of insulting. Imagine if your reaction to a black person owning his blackness was to say, “Oh, you’re not black . . .” The insinuation is that there is something wrong with being black or fat or whatever it is you’re supposedly not.

But THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING FAT. I know the first instinct of some people will be to argue the health risks with me. Don’t waste your breath. First of all, we fatties hear that shit all the time. Don’t you realize we can recite it all just as well as you because we are bombarded with it constantly? Secondly, I could link to articles and studies that show the relationship between fat and disease has been grossly overstated. That is not to say there is no relationship between fat and health. But it’s not as simple as fat = unhealthy and thin = healthy. There are thin people with diabetes, heart disease, cancer, etc., and fat people who are disease free. So what is the real issue with fat people? As the character, Vanessa, asks, “Why do you hate us so much?” After all, I don’t think it is concern for my health that causes complete strangers to yell “fat ass” at me from their car windows.

Like everything else, it comes down to sex. Fatties are the great unfuckable. (Round buttocks, large breasts, mounds of soft, warm flesh . . . who would want to fuck that?!) And if you can’t fuck us, what good are we? Image: Rembrandt van Rijn - Danae

If you can’t answer that question, I certainly can’t answer it for you.

The problem from the fatty side of things is that all too common conflation of sex and love and love and self-worth. It’s so easy when society constantly tells you you’re unattractive to feel unfuckable and when you feel unfuckable to feel unlovable and when you feel unlovable to feel worthless. Vanessa bemoans that “the basics of human happiness, feeling attractive, feeling loved, having guys chase after us, [is] just not in the cards for us,” but as someone who feels attractive and loved, I know it is in the cards. And if you haven’t been dealt that winning hand yet, maybe you need to try your luck with a different dealer.

But I remember the early days of my fattitude. I started gaining weight at puberty. I had recently moved hours away from my sister/best friend with my neglectful mother and abusive stepfather, and I was miserable. I was too young to drive, but the mall was just across the street from our apartment. For my $20/week allowance, I could buy a 1/2 lb of mini chocolate chip cookies and a bag of Jolly Ranchers to throw into my purse then head to the movies for buttery popcorn, a large drink, and back-to-back matinees. When we moved again, the only thing nearby was a 7-Eleven, and my entire allowance when to Entenmann’s and Hawaiian Punch and whatever other junk I could buy. I drowned my sorrows in sugar. Combine that with a complete and total lack of exercise, and you have the recipe for obesity.

But it’s not like I went from barely 100 to the almost 300 I am now overnight. At first, it was all tits and ass, and that didn’t feel like a bad thing. As a gopher for a property management office one summer, 14-year-old me would walk down the streets of Bethesda in my black mini-skirt and low-cut blouse to catcalls and lustful ogles from grown men, the archetypal construction worker and dark-suited businessman alike. It was flattering and exhilarating and . . . terrifying too. Especially getting those same looks from my stepfather. So as the fat began adding layers to my belly and my thighs and the stares began dwindling away, I felt sad yet . . . free. My fat became my protection. Ironically, the larger I became, the less visible I was. To men. For females and teenage boys, though, it was an open invitation for ridicule. You know how it goes. We are all participants in the fat-shaming game, whether shamed or shamer and possibly both. So when Vanessa on Louie goes on to say that “It sucks to be a fat girl,” yeah, I can relate. All fat girls can.

My fat had gone from my friend and protector to my burden and oppressor, and it evolved again as I became a woman. I began to see my fat as a useful tool for weeding out those shallow people I wouldn’t want anything to do with anyway and as a powerful weapon in the feminist war against the patriarchal and misogynistic standard of beauty for women in our culture. I am deeply saddened by the time, energy, and money women spend trying to achieve these arbitrary and often unnatural standards of beauty. How much power we give to those who might seek to keep us in line! My size (especially combined with my lack of make-up and hair products) is a clear symbol of my unwillingness to conform and be controlled.

Does that mean I’ll never lose weight? Well, never say never, but I know myself well enough to know that I could not – would not want – to do it without some sort of surgical intervention. But even if I lost my fat, I could never lose the way my fat has shaped me. To paraphrase Fat Amy, even if I got pretty thin, I’d still have a fat heart, and that’s what matters.

The ABC’s of Me

Being the tiniest bit OCD, I’m obsessed with the number 8 and the alphabet. I love putting things in alphabetical order, including, apparently, myself.

Despite my love of the alphabet, I think I’ll start with the one that describes me most . . .

	JoBro on A is for Atheist
	Nadine on A is for Atheist
	Son of Sharecroppers on A is for Atheist
	Nadine on unlikable
	JoBro on D is for Depressive