Weight a Minute…

Today I’m mad, crazy mad, at myself. This momentary madness is about my lifelong struggle, which I feel like is a struggle for a lot of people…see if any of this resonates.

If I could add back into my life every minute I’ve spent obsessing about my weight, I’d live another 20 years…is it just me? Maybe moreso than some others, I think. You see, I come from a family (although I use the term “family” loosely, since it never really felt like a family), anyway — a family that obsessed about female weight.

My mother was anorexic and was all of 63 pounds when she passed. Between the alcohol and the lack of nutrients, her body just stopped working. She died in her 50s.

My sister would eat, but then she’d purge. My mother used to complain to me that she’d find empty food containers, lots of them, under my sister’s bed, like full-on Entenman’s doughnut boxes — empty.

Tall and striking, my sister was a model at age 13. I don’t think it was the modeling that turned her to purging, though, I think it was more out of a lack of control. I’ve read that eating disorders often stem from the person feeling out of control and controlling one’s food intake was a way to take some of it back. Our home life was pretty awful and crazy, so wanting to control any aspect of her young life must have been needed, no matter how self-destructive.

Sadly, by the time my sister was 30, I noticed that her teeth were looking gray, likely from the acids that passed through them from purging — and she said she took tetracycline for her skin, which apparently also has that side effect. She also was so thin that she looked gaunt, but she did exercise like a fiend, so she was in shape and strong, just painfully thin. No idea the damage to her organs from the bulimia but throwing up one’s food for so many years had to have taken its toll.

She was so damned gorgeous when she was younger — it kinda broke my heart to see her hurt herself in this way.

My problem was not the same as the other women in my family. I also always had body dysmorphia, but my control issues mostly manifested elsewhere. I never controlled my diet in the same way my mom and sister did. I love food, I love a good cocktail or glass of wine — hell, bottle of wine, I love cooking and I have trouble placing limits on my intake. I’ve never been underweight. Only rarely have I considered myself at the correct weight. I usually am 5–10 pounds overweight, at least in my view. I always feel fat. Always.

This constant negative view of myself drives me crazy mad…I have such a love-hate relationship with my body. I’m very proportioned and have, well, never needed a boob job, but I always feel overweight, and feeling overweight impacts everything for me. I lose my confidence, and thus my mojo.

Why can’t I be one of those women who can walk with such confidence while showing rolls of fat, and there are a lot of women who do this. They seem to have fine mojo. I find their appearance so unattractive and yet they act as if they’re queens! And sorry, but that whole Kardashian look seems so fake, fat and cartoony to me. So… manufactured. Not a fan.

I’ve never been comfortable showing much skin at all. I’ve never worn a crop top, and only rarely do I show cleavage. I’ve always been like that — and I find women who routinely have their cleavage or abdomens front and center to be really tacky. They look like they’re trying so hard. I think showing a lot of cleavage is both unprofessional and needy. And yet… I said I wish I could feel comfortable doing that…such a conundrum.

I hate being so self-conscious about my body. Too much importance was placed on appearance by everything and everyone around me growing up. My father was often a misogynistic pig who would always comment about how women looked. To him, women weren’t valued for much else.

When we were young, my sister was referred to as “the pretty one,” and I was “the smart one.” My sister was known as “daddy’s girl,” I was not known as anything. I don’t recall ever being complimented on my appearance growing up, other than one time while we were watching TV, I was maybe 10 or 12, and my mother looked across the room at me and said, “you have good legs.”

Can’t believe I remember that as the one compliment from growing up. When my mother said that, I remember feeling as though she had been analyzing me and could find only one thing to compliment, which may or may not have been the case.

The only comment from my father in this area came when I was an adult. I was visiting him and his wife, my stepmother, in Murrieta, Georgia. I came downstairs dressed for a nice dinner out and my father looked me up and down, shook his head and said with what appeared to be disdain, “you are so Hollywood.” Because I was wearing black and in a long skirt? I guess as opposed to being in a little frilly, flowery dress, showcasing my legs and chest? He had said it while shaking his head, as though I was a lost cause. Yeah, that made a mark.

So now, I’m counting the Pandemic Pounds I’ve added since the stay-at-home orders began, and I’m wincing when I hear friends say they’ve been working out every day and have never looked better. I know I don’t look bad…but the extra (in my mind, anyway) 10 pounds or so has made me feel like shit. I hate myself. I wake up (like I have for decades) in the middle of the night and feel awful about my body. How could I have let myself gain weight again? I was almost happy with how I looked last year, even six months ago. Fuck, I’ve gained it back.

My life would be so much better if I was just always in shape. I only have so many good years left and I’m destroying them by feeling fat. Uch, I’m afraid my boyfriend thinks I’m disgusting, even as he tells me I’m hot. I think I’m disgusting. Every night I vow to make changes in my diet and start exercising more the next day. Usually, I don’t. I just continue to feel like shit about myself, it’s like my default position.

And maybe that’s just it — feeling fat, and maybe being 5–10 pounds above where I should be — this is my default feeling and apparently, my default weight. When did this damned default form? Why did I not make my default…better?! Is maybe being — ok, feeling — a little pudgy based in fear of being — of feeling — that I’m all that I can be? Is it fear of being defined by something other than my brain? Am I the only one who feels this way? Am I the only one who just can’t always stay in shape? I know, I know…I’m not.

We women rightly bitch about decades worth of advertising and entertainment that tells us repeatedly that we are not the ideal. That the sometimes-underweight actresses and often severely underweight models are the ideals, that’s why they’re on screen and in magazines wearing the beautiful clothes, makin’ the big bucks and having it all. Hey, good for them — they look amazing and they obviously have their mojo in line enough to show that much skin, but…damn, that’s not who most of us are. Thankfully, this is now such an old complaint that things may be changing…but…not without having done a lot of damage over the years.

So, what’s a Mojo Girl to do? We’re supposed to love ourselves for who we are, not for what we look like, right? Well, that’s super difficult for me. How about you?

Do we just try to take care of ourselves as best as we can and then cut ourselves some slack? Do we meditate about our self-worth and just practice walking the walk of confidence, even when we don’t feel it?

Um, YES. That’s exactly what we all should do. Do our best, treat ourselves with kindness, and walk the walk, regardless. I mean, it’s hard, but aren’t we tired of this particular madness?

I’m in for a real downer of a future if I tie my confidence to my appearance, cuz I ain’t gonna get better as the years pass. No, my mojo — our mojo — needs to come from inside, not outside. And I need to believe that.

I need to realize my worth and know that it has nothing to do with how I look right?

Ok, I’m working on it

One of these days I won’t forget how lucky I am to have the strong, mostly healthy and somewhat in-shape body that I have, and I’ll no longer be mad about it. One of these days.

By the way, you look great. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, including yourself.

We are Mojo Girls, no matter what. And the same goes for you Mojo Boys who are hangin out with us, too.

Time to go take a walk. Or read. Or sing a damned song, because having your mojo means we can — and should — feel good about ourselves, no matter what we’re doing, or how we look in the moment. Can ya feel it? Our internal mojo is on fire — let’s go radiate that glow, that warmth, that awesome feeling of confidence and knowing that we are enough, we are more than enough,  maybe in several ways, to rock this world.

Hey, if this momentary madness struck a chord, let me know. And please remember to follow or favorite Mojo Girl Madness wherever you get your podcasts — and maybe share this if you know someone out there who may be feeling icky or has a tendency to do so — let them know they’re not alone and we all need a pep talk sometimes.

And make a pledge -make a pledge — to each other — to give each other compliments, to give yourself compliments, and to try to love you…all of you.

And know that I love ya, madly.

The above is the text of the Mojo Girl Madness podcast episode entitled, WEIGHT A MINUTE…Listen to all episodes at mojogirlmadness.com