when i was a kid, i had chicken legs. i come from a long line of chicken legs, actually. my mom, my nana, her mom before that, you get the idea. anyway, these legs were ridiculous and i did nothing to help the situation by insisting on wearing doc marten sandals all year round. what about winter, you say? easy, i simply added socks! imagine a flamingo wearing bricks as shoes….that’s probably the best description i can offer. so yeah, super cute. and as much as i like to think i was a pioneer for women’s fashion at a young age, in hindsight i probably just spent most of my childhood walking around looking like an idiot. live and learn, right? in any case, i’ve long-since outgrown my sandal and socks phase but i’ve been thinking a bunch lately about my chicken legs from way back when. throughout my childhood, i was kind of a scrawny kid. again, not surprising because look at my mom and sisters but what changed as i got older is that i ditched my tiny frame when i was a teenager while my sisters stayed slim and slender. i swear one christmas break it was like my boobs sprouted, my braces came off, i figured out what contacts were and i somehow became a full blown woman. it was kind of like that scene from my big fat greek wedding, only i didn’t become popular or get to make out with john corbett. sigh. anyway, high school came and went and i remember being aware of my weight and size but even when i was discouraged about my self image, i took comfort in the tags in my clothes. the tags. sounds weird right? but it’s the truth. because even when i felt bad about body, i could remind myself that my pants were a 2 and my shirts were a S and those tiny tags made me feel better. gosh, you ever wish you could go back in time and just smack yourself? anyhow, then college came and the freshman 15 showed up and never left and i sort of just accepted that i wasn’t going to be “tiny” like my family anymore. and i was cool with it. really. because my tags said 6 or M and that was “average.” i was fine with average. average is the middle. i’m a middle child. everything checked out. after i graduated, my weight hovered around a number i was comfortable with and honestly i didn’t think about it much at all. it went up and down based on medicines i was taking, how active i was, what i was eating/drinking. usual stuff. then i got pregnant and i was sick as a dog and my weight dropped to my high school size. in a manner of months i went from M to S to L to S to L to XL. and i didn’t think it would matter much to me because i have this beautiful squishy baby who thinks i’m the tits and my husband loves me and i have a healthy relationship with my family and i eat kale sometimes and i talk to my therapist regularly and yada yada… but DAMN. the XL on my tags has been weighing heavily on my heart. i turn on my camera to take a selfie with doug and i find myself doing this weird sucking in/swallowing motion to try and make my neck look thinner? like, the fuck? i know how it sounds but it’s true! i have a picture of me in a swimsuit from the other day and i literally saw it compared myself to shamu. A WHALE. i have manic depression and anxiety and when i describe what it feels like to people i say that it’s like i can lay in bed and tell myself that the door is locked or the oven is off in my head but my body sort of involuntarily forces me to go check anyway. loving and appreciating my body sort of feels the same way. i can tell myself that i’m worthy and wonderful and brilliant but there’s this other force that just sort of usurps my positive affirmations and reminds me that i’m really just a fat lady with an extensive vocabulary and a really big sweet tooth. it’s like out of all the things i am i can only focus on what a tiny tag on the inside of my clothes says. XL. extra large. why is loving yourself so friggin difficult? loving people comes as naturally as breathing for me. just met? cool, i love you. love myself? naw, man it’s gonna be a no from me. may is mental health awareness month and i typically write something about having anxiety and depression. because it’s normal and people should talk about it because it’s really fucking lonely sometimes. when i think about mental health, i think about being a prisoner of my own mind. because for me, that’s what it feels like a lot. and whether i’m worried about my stove being on or sad because my pants don’t fit and i feel like the world is falling down around me there are always things that help me: my medicine. my therapist. my people. i don’t mean to tell you how to manage your emotions and feelings because what works for me may not work for you. but what i can tell you is this: taking medicine does not make you a failure. going to talk to a therapist doesn’t mean you have shitty friends who don’t listen. relying on routines to make you feel normal does not make you powerless. you are a magical fucking unicorn and you are worthy beyond measure. you are more than the size on the tag inside your clothes or the extra chin you see in your selfies. you are lovable and valuable and precious. and your worth is not and never will be correlated to any number on a scale or itchy ass tag inside your shirt. period. and if that’s hard for you to believe then i have only one thing to say to you... it’s really hard for me too. it doesn’t come naturally. i get it. but i’m gonna keep reminding you. because it’s true. and it’s important. and because reminding you reminds me as well. we all need to remind each other how shiny and special we are. so consider this your reminder. from me, with love.
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