My body is my library. It has the usual sections: horror, suspense, children’s, young adult, romance, history, and fiction. The fear comes in its borrowers. Many people come and check out these books, but I’m unable to control the way they are used. Many are respectful, some apathetic, and some… shamefully thoughtless. It’s the thoughtless ones that bother me the most.

It has taken me nearly 44 years to amass this collection. There are some really great reads – especially on tactical maneuvers and humour – but others I keep in my Special Collections and those can never be checked out.

When I take apart my body and begin to read through the stories based on the anatomical breakdown, I am amazed at how I speak. Remember this one, asks my left ankle. There are stories of pain and pleasure here, prod my genitals. And what do I speak when truth should come around, inquires my mouth. And my heart has so many tomes that it overspills into both horror and romance.

I am constantly surprised that the funders continue pouring money into my building additions. I am always in need of more rooms, of special materials for preservation, of new lighting. I recently had to expand my hours of operation. I’m thinking about adding a cafe with hot teas and overstuffed sofas.

I want to be comfortable here, but I’m having a hard time with the critics. What an unusually shaped building, they exclaim. No one really wants to visit this place, say my detractors. But there are others who are intrigued by the oddness, the eccentricities. There are a few who find connexion in those books and find solace in the stories… even in the fiction.

And so do I keep it open to the public? Change the admission to invitation only?

I’ve heard tell that libraries are losing funding. People want their stories condensed and canned. They need more pictures and video. And what would happen to me then? I wonder if making my building more sleek, leaner, more streamlined would increase my palatability?

Is it worth remodeling me, selling out some of my collections, for increased readership?

My entire life people have told me how courageous I am. I don’t believe it. Inside I feel like a trembling animal, like my poodle during a thunderstorm. I look at him during those storms and feel so much connexion that I am overwhelmed. I know what he feels – that he is adrift, that something powerful surrounds him, and that even being held by someone is a trap.

I don’t know what this supposed courage is that others see in me. I call it survival, but I think that is because I am denying ownership of my courage. Is it right to claim this? Courage is for heroes. Is it heroic to move through your day-to-day existence? Is it heroic to get up each day, searching desperately for some brightness, knowing that these acts of repetition are the things that are keeping you alive? Sometimes I feel that if I broke my rhythm, didn’t perform the same types of acts day after day, that I would shatter, unravel, or dissolve in nothingness. But, then, little glimmers of this absurdity show through: a change in schedule, a friend with a crisis, a laughter from my child, a tear from my husband… and I find that courage. I see the point of my life. I know that there is a stream that runs through me, a thread that connects every piece of me.

My mother’s two suicide attempts are part of my story. I retell this by first understanding that her story is not my story. I incorporate this into who I have become understanding that suicide is an option, not an inevitable sentence. And I understand that there is fear in the retelling because there is always fear in vulnerability.

I know my husband and daughter see me as courageous. They’ve both told me so a number of times. I am confused over what they are seeing when they’re seeing it. I hear “courage” and think “survival.” But there is courage in survival. There is courage in taking a different road, in making a different choice. There is courage in choosing the path of love when everyone else walks the path of hatred and suspicion.

I used to think that living a courageous life meant to live a large life, doing something so significant that people all around you would bow in awe. But that’s not the case. My small life, these tiny actions, these seemingly insignificant moments touch others and heal in ways I’ll never imagine. I make a difference.

But, most importantly, I am healing myself. I am redefining and reiterating my story, giving it new meaning and more purpose. My courage may be thin and fragile, but it is a constant thread. And sometimes, that’s all it takes.

I used to wake up to find my mother sitting on my couch. She never said a word. I would go about the chores of the morning – putting up the previous night’s dishes, folding the clothes on the drying rack, getting food prepped for that night’s dinner – and she would sit there, judging me. Inevitably, I would have to drive somewhere during the day and I’d find her, materialized in the passenger seat. I made sure to drive carefully, mindful of every turn signal, every stop sign. Sometimes she would chat with me about my life choices, but mostly she would sit there, saying nothing, but still judging me.

I’d never told anyone about my invisible burden. She was just there and I assumed that that was the price of being a daughter. Would my daughter have me riding around on her shoulders for the rest of her life? Was this a choice or just a repercussion of family?

One night while doing the dishes, I told Jim and Morgan that I’d been thinking a lot again about my mother. This conversation comes up every few weeks. I’ll go through periods where I can’t get her out of my head and I obsess over what she might be doing and thinking. But something clicked in my head this time. “I want to tell you something,” I said, surprising myself. I told them about my invisible judging mother. I told them I was tired of her following me everywhere, tired of feeling unworthy, of feeling like I had to prove something, tired of trying to be better than other women.

And like every self-help book in the world says, just saying it out loud changed something in me. I did the required crying jag and then… something in my chest lessened. I’ve never seen her since. She’s abandoned my couch and my passenger seat. Probably the saddest part – in that way we feel sadness over things found in history books – is that I don’t think about her as often now. Maybe the better rewording is that I don’t obsess over her like I used to. She’s just a woman who made a series of choices that affected me. Some of them I have to come to terms with, some I’ll never understand, and some I’ll be forever grateful for.

These moments suck. There comes a point – and for many women, it’s several points – in a women’s life where we have to decide what’s ours and what’s our mother’s. Which bits will we claim ours and will we be accountable for and which will we let her own? Are we playing the role of victim just a little too well or are we truly on the path of healing? How much of this relationship are we letting define who and how we are?

No mother is perfect. I got that. But some mothers really fuck it up. And some just make bad choices. And still others get that they’ve made mistakes and try to own and amend each one. I hope I’m in the latter category. I really hope that my kid isn’t sitting down at a computer one day, regaling the world of her mother that just couldn’t get it right.

I’m not always optimistic. I don’t always experience those overwhelming surges of love towards my hormonal teenage daughter. I don’t always say the right thing or make the right decision. I do fuck up. But… that’s an OK place to be.

Now that my mother has left the room, it feels even better in here.

Sunny Skies listened to the Moroccan story-teller telling stories.
Apparently, she listened so intently that she forgot and became part of the story.
This can happen to any of us when we forget because a story is very much like a dream.
When you are awake, you think, I’ve been dreaming, but now I’m awake.
And when you’re dreaming, you think, I’ve been dreaming, but now I’m awake.
- excerpt from “Moon Over Morocco” (ZBS Productions)

I’ve been telling my stories for years. When I tell them, I notice the crafting that’s going on. From my experiencing the actual event to the processing to the retelling, I’m unpacking, peeling away the layers of perceived reality, and reassembling them into something more coherent. Sometimes life needs this. We often find ourselves in situations where we’re standing there thinking, “What the fuck is going on here? Is this really happening? How did I get in this situation?” In rationalizing how we moved from Point A to Point B, the story begins. It is in the telling that we find validation, confirmation that we truly experienced this event.

And it is this crafting that excites me. I’ve spent so much time looking back over the events of my life and have viewed them through our kaleidescope of available emotions: what would this look like if I took a comedic slant? Were there any moral lessons in that? What big themes are running through all of these? If I told this story, would I gear it towards an audience or would I just speak it back to me? Am I willing to tell the story in all its personal detail? Is the deeply personal necessary for the plot?

I’ve often been criticized for saying too much, for being too blunt, but I really think that to not be would be an insult to the process. The purpose of the telling is not only to be vainly validated and confirmed, but it is, as its highest goal, to mimic Plato’s coming out of the cave. If I have an experience and, after examination, I’ve learned from it, then it is my responsibility to tell that story. And, yes, I realize this is loaded, but you have to consider the goal here: we are each other’s Nietzschean spur. We must strive towards being the better person, have the better relationship, be a more productive member of our community.

Now am I advocating that we all sit down and engage in a daily story hour? No. I am, however, firstly advocating that we spend more time engaging with our experiences. Can you be The One Who Watches? Are you willing to be with an experience enough to pull it apart? Can you find the nuggets of wisdom in the experience? And maybe for you this isn’t about looking at every experience. There are some who believe that tying shoes is just… tying shoes. But what if you chose to just think through one experience in your life and work with that? What could you unearth? How could you retell the story? What angle would you take? How much of you would you divulge?

Stories give us superpowers. We all know this because we tell ourselves stories each day to keep us going. I wake up every morning telling myself the same story: Kick ASS! I get another CHANCE! My story involves chances, options, opportunities, a multitude of paths. Telling myself this story over and over gives me hope and keeps me rooted in optimism. What stories do you tell yourself? If you find that your stories are rooted in fears, is there another way you could tell the story that would make it more compelling? Maybe you like the story you’re telling yourself. There are some stories that I like to hear over and over because I’ve memorized the plot, know the point of denouement, and can happily predict the ending. But those are only for comfort, not for momentum. Comfort isn’t a bad thing; sometimes stagnation is important. It gives us down time, time to heal and to remember. But if all you are seeking is the retelling of the same story, then there is another story underneath that. Dig deeper.

“The story is only half told when one side tells it,” goes the old Berber saying. A story cannot exist without the storyteller and the audience. You have to be willing to tell the story and wait for the reaction. Our stories then become part of the cycle. It is an endless retelling: the audience then has a new experience and creates a new story. This endless retelling creates great weight. Think of the types of stories you hear. Are they loaded with conspiracy? Hope? Fear? Joy? Think of the story-tellers you surround yourself with. Do they encourage you to tell your own story? Do they doubt your story? Find ways to pierce holes in your perception? The types of stories you surround yourself with mirror the life you lead. In this, you always have a choice.

And so you become a Story Superhero. Will you share your powers with others?

On January 30th, the Maine chapter of GLSEN (Gay, Lesbian, Straight Education Network) gave an in-house training to the Gray-New Gloucester High School staff. The goal of the training was to increase awareness of GBLT (gay, bisexual, lesbian, and transgendered) teens and to help them strategize about ways to ensure a safer environment within the school. I was asked to give a parent’s perspective on this issue.

***

From the moment my kid gets on that bus every morning until the moment she gets home, her safety out of my hands and in the hands of others. The bus drivers, the custodial staff, the teachers, the administrative staff, and the students are all responsible for keeping each other safe.

But what does this mean? What are my expectations around this concept of “safety”? I’m not a romantic here. I understand that in a building housing several hundred people of differing ages and backgrounds and beliefs there is always a possibility of friction. I believe that there are good policies in place at this high school outlining what is acceptable and what will not be tolerated. There also seem to be some good procedures around holding people accountable via punishment (I hate that word; I prefer “redirection”) and follow-up. But it’s not these that I have qualms with. How we deal with the infractions is minor. How we identify and modify our behaviours and employ good practices should be the focus. Safety isn’t and should never be about applying bandages, but rather about preventing it from ever happening.

As a parent, here’s where I’m coming from. Things that need to be in place to be safe – personally and within our community:

• recognizing and utilizing our sense of empowerment
• maintaining constant vigilance
• ongoing communication
• a willingness to listen
• thinking outside the box
• understanding our relationship to ourselves and to our community members

OK, so here’s my job as a parent: I have to do the work to keep myself educated and receptive. I have to make sure that I’m operating from a place of authenticity and honesty as all times. Without this work, I can’t be a decent parent or community member. I also get to spend countless hours answering questions around the whys and hows of the universe, trying desperately to explain injustices, and peddling my versions of compassion and appropriate action. My job is to help Morgan unpack what she experiences and to push her to develop her own sense of self and understanding her place in the world. But I don’t operate in a void. I co-parent with my husband and with each of you – which can be scary… or incredibly exciting.

So this means that you, too, have to do this work on keeping yourselves educated and receptive because an educational institution is never just about academics. The periodic table and proper grammar can be learned at any point in our lives. But you have an amazing opportunity here: you get to teach kids about their inherent powers. You get to teach them how to flip their superhero toggle. And what happens when a teacher or a parent shirks that responsibility? A kid with no power is not a kid to be controlled; it’s a kid to be feared. Anyone who views themselves as powerless is someone who’s angry, who lashes out, who seeks to dominate. When any member of the school staff, for example, chooses to ignore or conveniently not see or hear one kid utilizing power-over – whether it’s by name-calling or physical violence or property sabotage, whatever – you are disempowering 3 parties: the kid being victimized, the kid doing the victimizing, …. and yourself. As the adults, we have to set the example of self-worth and self-empowerment. If the kids don’t learn it from the supposed “people in power,” then the wrong messages are conveyed and chaos rules the day.

I don’t want Morgan to graduate with a diploma representing her ability to survive from one day to the next. I want that diploma to mean something – that she was able to have experiences that excited her, learn things that challenged and intrigued her, and met people that mirrored her own self-worth.

This is how we parent together. Because for about 40 hours a week, you’re part of my family.

I am looking out my window at the snow accumulating on the branches. It comes down with such lightness, such silence, that it is almost deceptive. Snow seems to require little effort to fall and yet it covers everything in a heavy blanket. Just one flake at a time, combined with billions of other flakes, falling together to create this icy change in our environment. I can’t help but be impressed: all the nooks and crannies on the trees are covered. And we sit inside and accept this new landscape. We can either bitch about it or stare in wonder.

I know about the personalities of those who bitch; I’ve been there before. Oh, shit! That snow is in my way, so now I’ve got to go out there and move it around a bit to pretend I’ve got some control over nature! Something different is always an inconvenience. A different idea, a different person, a different situation always ensures that I will be spending more time outside of my self-constructed Comfort Box. And don’t even get me started about encountering more than one of these in any given day! I shiver to think of it.

But what if we just took it in stride? Looking out on this morning’s snow, my initial reaction was, Crap. We’ve got a fireside party tonight. What will we do about the plow guy? Where will people park? It’s supposed to be cold tonight. Will people want to come into the house? Will I have enough room? What if I get tired and want to go to bed? One fear led to another and another and another. I could hear my head literally buzzing with worry. So, I stopped my head chatter and forced another mantra on the scene: Isn’t that snow beautiful? … and my head quieted. It was eerie, actually. Thinking about the whiteness and the little animals burrowed down out there pushed the fear talk to the back. I could still hear the murmuring, but it wasn’t dominating. What if, I thought, I just look at the snow and then… do something else I enjoy and then… do something else I enjoy, etc.? What would happen then? And what is that called when I rerecord those mantras? Courage? Yes, this is true courage.

Understanding that all those fears and worries are there seems, ironically, easy to me. I grasp onto them like a drowning woman, knowing that all the cynicism in the world will somehow prove me right, will somehow validate all the other times I’ve feared and worried. Clinging to these habitually is like the most vicious tautology: fear leads to doubt leads to fear leads to doubt leads to fear. This negativity becomes comfortable because it’s what we’ve been taught, it’s what we know. Our world (or at least the one I was brought up in) reiterates our proclivity for “sin,” for screwing up, for making wrong choices, for having to pay repeatedly for our weaknesses. After a while – while we’re still in our single-digit years, I would wager – we buy into it. We believe that our weaknesses can smother our strengths. And as women, this mantle is doubly heavy.

I questioned this mentality in my teens. I remember not wanting to give in so easily. I remember making those first decisions based on what I wanted and finding those decisions turn out to be really good. The euphoria felt afterwards increased exponentially simply because I did it on my own. When I moved into my 20s, my courage receded to the back again. I noticed that standing out and speaking up lost me friends and made co-workers and supervisors distrust my ability to act as “team player.” One who questions is always the enemy of the other’s Comfort Box.

I played the Corporate World Game, always wavering between courage and fear. I noticed these new tools begin to bleed into and inform my personal relationships. I began to doubt and erratically jump between maniacal fear and maniacal courage; there was no middle ground. This was scary territory because I couldn’t put words around my experiences, my feelings, and my actions to explain to others’ why I was choosing to speak and act in that manner. People would initially warm up to me, drawn to my light of courage and genuineness – and then run screaming when I unleashed the Doubt of Lisa Marie. Both could be intense and overwhelming.

After I quit my corporate job and decided to work out of the house and be a stay-at-home mom, all the things I’d struggled with came into sharp focus. All the tools I’d crafted to survive in Corporate America didn’t work here. I kept trying to force the old tool to do new jobs and I just kept coming up against a fistful of broken tools. A period of deep introspection, harbouring on depression and anxiety, began and lasted almost an entire year. No one will really know some of the thoughts I had during this time. I questioned my reasons for living, my usefulness as a community member, my contributions to the world, my connexion to the Divine… all of it. But one theme floated to the surface time and again: you, Lisa Marie, have courage.

What was the one thing that kept me in school and kept my grades up when my family life was abusive? What was the one thing that drove my survival instinct when the money ran out for food? Why get up every day to try again when I’m not even sure anyone really sees my worth? There’s just something in me that niggles, that won’t let go. I know that my ideals are romantic, that my ethics are rooted in some pretty radical philosophies, that my demands on others for authenticity can be seen as tough, but I think we aren’t courageous enough. I think we want too much comfort, too much coddling. I don’t think we push ourselves enough and, when we do get pushed, we whine over our perceived lack of fairness.

There is a new breed of person on the horizon, one that I am hoping to see reflected in my daughter, one that I am hoping to be. This new breed will do the appropriate soul-searching necessary to truly understand the meaning of authenticity, of compassion, of power, and of courage. This new person will strive to reach for places that are difficult in order to obliterate their Comfort Boxes. This new person will honour the strength in others and encourage conversation around old notions of “unspeakables.” This new breed will look at the window on a snowy day and think “beauty” instead of “burden.”

How much power will you allow yourself to have? Are you this new breed?

This is the end. I know this now. As I sit in my warm and dry living room, holding my cup of tea, I realize that the past, present, and future are merging into one moment. Who was I to think there was a difference?

This storm came on with great amounts of gloom and doom from news-makers. As the Observer, I watched each of our reactions. Jim checked and rechecked the forecast, tracking the storm as it made its way up the eastern coast. His face almost flushed to fever, he excitedly started fantasizing about all the ways he could interact with this weather, reveling in the power that was Mother Nature. Mo was attempting to take everything in stride. I could tell that talk of what-ifs and preparedness sent tremors through her desires for stability and comfort, but she attempted a steadfast approach. Secretly, I mirrored Jim’s enthusiasm, but when I tried to speak of it, I found myself speaking of fears. The protective side of me warned of trees crashing through roofs and worried over the dog’s fear of thunder. Our dog, Edgrrr, lives one moment at a time, seemingly oblivious… but not really, I like to think.

As the storm began this morning, the sky was still dark. I woke to Edgrrr trembling on the bed beside me. During thunder, he only seeks comfort in proximity, not contact; he hates to be held in a storm. I got up and performed my usual tasks: checking windows, getting the dog’s breakfast, straightening up. It all seemed so normal. But I felt something in my head clicking into place. And maybe it was just the timeliness of it all. Maybe it was just the realization of the storm, of the reactions to it… of where I was in my life right now.

I’ve heard it said that every 7 years, your life begins a new cycle, that the last 7 years were preparing you for this set of 7. It has been uncanny how this theory holds in my life. Around 7, 14, 21, 28, and 35, major shifts happened in my life that, now looking back, I can see prepared me for the next set. If I had to pick a major theme, I’d say it’s all been about letting go. I am now 42 and am still finding things to let go of, but… it’s easier. There’s so much breathing room, more freedom now than I ever expected. By buying into this theory, I accept that this set of 7 years will define the quality of the next. This is my challenge to myself: to ensure that this one is done well. Can I own and express that Jim-like enthusiasm over things outside my control? Can I remain Mo-like solid in the face of unknown, knowing I have the internal and external resources to problem-solve? Can I accept Edgrrr-like that one moment and be present and oblivious at the same time?

The storm outside undulates like a sky wave. I look out the window and see the trees swaying and hear the rain hissing. Am I the only one waxing philosophical this morning? While Jim and Mo sleep, I am here typing away on the computer. Edgrrr has finally allowed himself to fall into a doze. And I am here, practicing being right here, right now.

This is a good start for groundwork for that next set… assuming the trees don’t crash through the roof.

I move between these two worlds with the ease of a dancer. I didn’t recognize this as an artform until recently, this stepping between Fear and Joy, this undulation between Doubt and Bliss. As an adult, I am now able to give words to something that I’ve taken as second nature. As a child, this took years of learning, programming and reprogramming, to get just the right balance to stay sane, to keep hope kindled. Do other people do this, too?

When I was small, I felt like I was being stewed in a broth of shame and anger. There was so much negativity around me: my mother’s self-loathing, the lack of boundaries, eating disorders, the Southern insistence on secrecy, the verbal sleight-of-hand that always seemed to be teeming on the outskirts of my hearing… These always peppered my pot. At one point, I realized that I could choose to step out. I would make conscientious decisions to be The Observer – even when these things were happening to me. If my mother said something cruel to me, I would rationalize that she was having a bad day, that a series of shitty circumstances led her to this set of beliefs and actions. Sounds mature, right? But at 9 or 10, I shouldn’t have had to do that sort of disassociation.

Maybe that sort of thinking is a way of sideways forgiveness. Maybe by putting the abuser, say, in a victimizing position, I could forgive more easily. I’m still not sure it’s worked, but it makes the burden a bit lighter.

But I believe I’ve created a monster. Each day I wake up and am truly grateful, truly thrilled to have been given another shot. I go through my morning with increasing excitement over what possibilities might unfold that day. And then… something crashes and I start thinking about all the What Ifs that plague me in the dark. (I don’t need to list them out; we all have our own lists of them.) I find myself stopping in mid-stride, my breath catching, and want to run to Jim, my Fixer of Emotional Turmoil. Some days I give in and do take my fears to him, but most days I don’t. There are too many to unload. The weight of them unbearable for someone as unblackened as I perceive Jim to be.

So I waver. I breathe. I keep coming back again and again to this moment. In this moment, I am healthy, I tell myself. In this moment, I am well-fed. In this moment, I have a roof over my head, am intelligent, am well-loved, am able to communicate, am strong. And if I say it enough and in such a way as to only slightly convince myself that I believe it, I can move again. The panic subsides… and no one is the wiser.

This is my day. This happens to me over and over, several times a day, everyday of my life. I used to look for the light patches between the clouds. After years and years of minute-to-minute internal work, I feel like I can finally claim the opposite is now true.

I do feel as if it is a dance between two worlds still. The one filled with negativity is comfortable, familiar. I understand it’s weight. It is unbelievably soft in ways that are almost obscene. But the one that sees the positive, the possibility is lighter – and that, too, can be scary. To be without weight can make one feel untethered; you have to fight sometimes to find ground.

This dance has become my ritual though. Some days it changes in colour, in texture, in speed, but I’ve learned to use it to my advantage. As long as I don’t fall asleep under the weight, I think I can keep walking toward awakening.

 This article is dedicated to Jim and Mo.
Jim, thank you for always helping me process and heal.
Mo, thank you for challenging me in the most uncomfortable ways possible.
I love you both.

This is the best time of the day for me: between 4:30a and 8:30a, the world seems alive with opportunity and possibility. It is that time between dreaming and title (Mom, Wife, Business Owner). Usually the dark is just beginning to fade back into the light, the dog is getting a little restless, and, in my half-sleep, I mull over my dreams and smile at getting to start another day.

It’s really like this for me. Always has been. I have never taken the act of waking up for granted. Every night I go to sleep, I think, “I did my best today.” I say this so my rest will come easier, so that any guilt that may have accumulated can disperse, so that any worries I have can take a back seat. In the morning, my actions of yesterday are validated: I was given another opportunity, another chance to try again, to love a little more. I have seen so much death and pain that taking waking for granted is an insult to that moody temptress, Life.

Morning routines are pretty predictable: wash a load or two of clothes, straighten the house, check the ferments, feed the dog, plan out the day’s food, check email, and do yoga. But the difference lies in the approach. I am very conscientious about my attitude: am I being present while doing the dishes? How can I creatively call on my compassion today in my dealings with Mo and Jim? What do I need to do for myself today to make sure I’m taken care of? What can I do today to give back to my community?

My mother and grandmother have reiterated their frustration with me for “needing to process” and “always having to analyze.” Others have told me that I “think too much.” I have often been mocked for my questioning nature, for the part of me that always has to unpack. I used to feel great guilt and shame around this. It wasn’t until Mo came along that I realized this was crap. Listening to the questions Mo would come up with – from “Mom, is baby oil made from babies?” (toddler) to “Mom, how do we know when we’re truly being ourselves?” (teen) – have slowly begun to erase all pretenses of shame. We have to ask. It is only in the asking that we can progress as individuals and as a society. It is only in the asking that we can drop the shame and guilt that plague us. It is only in the asking that we are able to let go.

Many people have come into my life and then turned tail when they butt up against my questioning nature, thinking my questions are too personal or inappropriate. I have spent years wallowing in remorse over who I am, years worrying about how I can change to be less like who I am. But this morning I woke up and thought about Mo’s question from yesterday: “Mom, how do we know when we’re truly being ourselves?” I realized that I am walking my path and that others are walking theirs. There may be moments of intersection, but it’s not something to mourn. I tended to focus on the lack when these people were no longer around, but what if I turned that around? What if I began to celebrate the moments of intersection instead? What if I gave myself a little credit for being open and honest, for utilizing my compassion and tact where necessary?

My mother told me once that life isn’t about finding out what you want; it’s about finding out what you don’t want. This was profound for me. At 42, I am finding that I don’t want to make a whole lot of time for guilt and none at all for regret. I am finding that I don’t want to base my worthiness on the number of friends that I have. I am finding, too, that I don’t want to keep berating myself for not having qualities that others deem imperative to Good Character™.

A number of months ago, Mo dedicated the Alicia Keys song, “Superwoman” to me. She said, “This really reminds me of you.” The song is about women pulling themselves up from under, women in pain rising above, women finding their strength when being stood upon. Knowing that Mo sees me as this kind of woman meant more to me than she’ll ever know. It meant that all the work I did was worth it. It meant that all the times I’ve rebelled and brought together have been noticed and appreciated.

To feel this respect is so powerful, but I wouldn’t have been able to feel that if I hadn’t respected myself first.

I recently came across an article I’d written in January of 2010. As I read it, I realized how, unfortunately, this is still relevant today. Given that I am raising a (now 14yo) girl, it struck an especially poignant note. P.S. My weekly phone conversations with my grandmother have now changed into weekly written correspondences. Unfortunately, her hearing isn’t what it used to be. I miss hearing her voice… even though she does still sometimes revel in lamenting.

***

She came at me with her arms outspread, her orange beehive lit up it all its glory… and licking her lips. I never understood the lip-licking thing, but maybe that was how she prepared for a kiss. I always melted into her chest, my face smashed by her hard pointed bras that were so in fashion at the time. She smelled like laundry detergent and Chanel No. 5. And whenever she hugged me, she made this little moan of pleasure, like I was her absolute most favouritest (her word) person in the whole world.

And I still am.

I love my grandma. And though the pointed bras are long gone and I’m now much taller, she still gives the best hugs around.

I spent every Sunday of my childhood at my grandma’s house. My granddad would pick me up at 12:30p to be back in time for our 1p lunch. Lunch was always some type of meat and potatoes and an overcooked vegetable followed by a ridiculously large dessert. One of my favourites was the big slab of pound cake mounded high with Weight Watchers^TM ice cream.

After lunch, we would sit around the kitchen table playing cards or Othello, always keeping a hawk-eye on the other in case of cheating. My granddad would come in and try and start a conversation with us and my grandma would cuss him out for interrupting her concentration. When she turned her attention back to the game, my granddad would give her the finger behind her back while smirking like a kid. “I saw that, Joe,” she would say without turning around. I used to believe she had eyes in the back of her head.

Around 4p, we would go out to dinner, to “beat the crowd,” as she would say. I was never hungry for dinner at 4p, but you don’t argue with my grandma. So, I would order my food and stuff it down, feeling so full I ached. This was the norm. This was how it felt to “get enough” at a meal.

During the summer of my 11^th year, my grandma and mother informed me that I was going to Weight Watchers^TM. I was utterly confused because I wasn’t even really aware of my body yet. I didn’t understand the concept of fat or thin. I went to that first meeting and did the initial weigh-in. I think I was around 100 pounds and was just under 5′. Looking back now, I know this was not fat for a kid. I remember my mother exclaiming, “Wow! That’s more than me!” (My mother was 5’1” and had a very tiny frame.) My mother and grandma then left me to attend the meeting by myself. I was the only child there. I was surrounded by several middle-aged women all bemoaning the hardships of cooking for their families, of resisting temptations, of staying on the plan. Only about a third of the women in the room were women I would categorize as fat.

That summer was spent weighing out all my food, writing everything I ate into my food chart, feeling hungry, and gradually getting more and more pissed. By the end of the summer, I had gotten down to 67 pounds. I look back at pictures of myself during that time and I feel a great sadness. I was too thin. To put this in perspective… I have a 12-year-old daughter who is a little over 5′ now and weighs around 96 pounds. She is a dancer and has a beautifully-proportioned, lithe body. Most people I know call her slender. 67 on my frame was an abomination. How could my mother, my grandmother, and the women weighing me in at Weight Watchers have all agreed that I was overweight?!

When school started in September, people were floored… and not in the way I expected. Girls that had just the year before teased me for wearing glasses and being a teacher’s pet were all now inviting me to their back-to-school parties. Boys that previously tripped me in the halls between classes were now passing me notes. I hated it. It felt fake and contrived. I was starting to realize that this thin thing may not be for me. So, after school one afternoon, I stopped by the convenience store and bought as much candy and cookies as my allowance could afford. I stored this under my bed and ate at night with a rebellious glee. This was the most joy I’d felt in weeks! In the dark… just me and my food… no one bothering me… no one pushing me to weigh anything. I was in heaven.

Over the next few weeks, all my weigh-ins began showing plus signs: +1/2 pound, +3/4 pound, +2 pounds. I remember the last weigh-in like it was yesterday. I was 12, feeling a bit ashamed at lying to my mother and grandma this whole time, but also feeling a strong sense of defiance and independence. As I stepped onto the scale, the woman compared the last week’s numbers to this week’s numbers and looked at me with this great disappointment. “You’ve gained another pound,” she said gloomily.

I stepped off the scale and looked at my mother, who seemed to be processing something. “You don’t want to do this, do you?”

“I never did. You wanted this, not me. I liked being my size.” Ironically, I felt so small saying this. I could never judge how she was going to react.

My mother looked at me for a while, sighed, and said, “OK. Come on. Let’s go.”

We never went back again. I continued to gain weight and, what I would call, “normalize” back to a weight that worked for me. My mother nor my grandma ever spoke about losing weight to me again during my childhood.

It wasn’t until years later that began to understand the effect being raised by these women had on me. There were certain assumptions, certain unspoken truths, in my family. They were all centered around how a woman should look and act and dress and eat. There was this place between girl and woman that was supposed to somehow move from joy and carelessness to obsession and fear. Women were – and still are – to transform from living for themselves to living for others. And I’m guessing now that age 11 is the preferred age of transition.

I am now 41. I have spent these last 2 years consciously trying to reclaim joyful and intentional eating. Ideally this is defined as uncovering your definition of true hunger and eating when that arises and stopping when it’s been satisfied; being totally present in my food gathering, preparation, and consumption; and marveling afterwards at the food consumed and the abundance available to you. Sounds like a fantasy, right? This isn’t the easiest thing in the world, I know. This awareness flies in the face of everything this culture is built upon.

I’ve found though that changing your approach to food consumption changes who you are on a molecular level. Once those changes begin to occur, something shifts in the way you think, feel, and react. Deciding to take control of what goes in determines who you are. The most powerful step on the journey is the one where you realize that it’s your feet that are doing the walking.

Even though we are many states apart now, I still talk to my grandma every Sunday. She’s more vocal now about her desire to diet and revels in lamenting the days when she “could eat whatever she wanted.” When we are talking, a part of me feels a great sadness. I know that she is still invested in the idea of food being the enemy, the one to be battled with. But another part of me feels such appreciation… because this is also the woman who taught me the value and necessity of independence.