Tag Archives: self-esteem

Bad Lands

Freeform thoughts,

ducks

I used to work with a lady who was quite spiritual in her approach to life – I don’t mean in a religious sense, it was less defined than a belief system. In fact I don’t really know how to describe her…the nearest I could come up with would probably be ‘as mad as a box of frogs’ but that sounds unkind and actually I look back on her attitude with fondness and not a small amount of envy if I’m honest. She believed in whatever felt right to her in any given moment in time, for whatever reason, no matter how quirky – or utterly bonkers –  it seemed to anyone else.

Just think about that for a second…how liberating would that be. I mean on one level, I reckon we’ve all done it to some small degree – hands up if you’ve ever read a horoscope and immediately checked a different newspaper or magazine or website to find one that sounded more appealing – I know have.  And if I have two to choose from, and one of them tells me today is the day that a tall dark handsome millionaire is going to carry me off to a land where chocolate has no calories, where he will ravish me till my eyes pop out,  or better still I’m going to bag my dream job as chief ice cream taster for Haagen Dazs and I’ll get skinnier with every mouthful, count me in I’ll pick that one every time. But much as I might leave the house with a spring in my step ready to embrace Utopia, that’s closer to wishful thinking than belief.

Our personal belief systems have evolved through our respective lifetimes as a direct result of things we’ve seen, experienced, been told. My personal view is that our self esteem is so closely linked to our personal beliefs that it’s nigh on impossible to separate the two. And if somebody says something which resonates within our personal belief system, the message lands far more easily than if it’s at odds with what we believe.

That’s why the asshole in my head has so much power over me. My belief system is built on some fundamental principles which include skinny being good, and fat being bad. I’m not alone in this belief – it’s widely held if you’ll pardon the pun – it’s a message that seems baked into the fabric of society, unless you live in Tonga (which by the way I’m still considering as a relocation option if the diet goes to shit). I can’t even begin to tell you how much I envy those people who regard fat and skinny as having equal merit in the body stakes. I’d give my right arm to feel like a goddess instead of a moose but I just don’t see a world where that’s going to happen. After almost fifty years (*weeps * HTF did that happen) my beliefs are pretty hard-wired into my DNA.

So if someone tells me I look nice, I’ll smile and accept the compliment but it doesn’t land, you know? When the asshole tells me I look fat, that lands. Bad lands every time. The trick is, taking the hit and using it to spur you on to a better place…I’m on it.

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First Impressions

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, ,

not listeningI had an interesting conversation with the asshole inside my head yesterday morning as I was getting dressed, and I chewed on it all the way to work. Given that I’m a single girl, early morning conversation in my house is usually limited to my chit chat with the dog who listens really hard with his head cocked to one side just waiting for me to mention either ‘breakfast’ or ‘walkies’, both of which are guaranteed to prompt a little brown and white whirlwind because that’s his cue to race downstairs and crack on with his day. So it’s generally a time of low conflict given that both me and the furry one are blessed with a sunny disposition and enjoy our morning routine.

The asshole had different ideas today. I told you didn’t I, that he’d try and erode my willpower though the back door by affecting my mood. So this morning, he started by passing comment on my hair, which admittedly needs cutting – I’m going on Saturday as it happens but apparently when it’s just that bit too long, it makes my face look fat. Fatter.

He didn’t approve of my outfit either which prompted me to change twice before I even left the bedroom. I never do that, so clearly he thought he was on a roll, and as a parting shot he reminded me I was interviewing today, and what would the candidate think when they were met by some fat old woman in reception.

It didn’t make me run for the naughty cupboard and drown my sorrows with chocolate in case you’re wondering, but the reflex to eat when I need to draw some comfort is alive and well, evidenced by the fact that I’d eaten my lunch by 10am. But that was a whoops with a small ‘w’ because despite his best efforts, I didn’t crumble and the game ended with Me: 1 – Asshole: 0.

But anyway, as I was driving into the office, I did reflect on what is the first thing people notice about me. When I’m skinny, people might notice my hair, which Mother Nature has rushed through the aging process with warp speed and it’s very silvery blonde now. It’s actually quite a pretty colour. If I was to have a bad hair day they’d definitely notice that too…untamed (which it never is for work) it’s ridiculously curly with a tendency to frizz and puff out like a really bad silver ‘fro.

When I’m skinny they’d probably notice my clothes…I’m a bit of a fox if truth be known when I can fit into non-fat-lady duds and I have an eye for what looks good. It’s a different story when you’re the size of two people in one body – for all these catalogues and websites purporting to design clothes to flatter ladies with a fuller figure, the reality is whatever you put on looks blah, or at least that’s how it feels.

When I’m skinny people might even notice my big smile, or my green eyes. But right now, I think the asshole’s probably right – before they have chance to take in any of that, they’d probably just notice that I’m really fat. And on days when your confidence is having a bit of a wobble, that really sucks.

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If I had a pound…

Reflections on past times, Worst memories, ,

£

…for every pound in weight I’ve lost over the years I could probably give Bill Gates a run for his money. I can’t remember the first diet I ever went on, but I do remember the moment it occurred to me that I didn’t have the same kind of Bambi limbs as most of the other girls at school.

It was sometime around top class in infants, when we were doing a topic about farms – I even remember the teacher who first alerted me to the fact that I was a porker under construction, she was called Miss Baume, and I remember her looking like an extra from The Liver Birds. She called me and another fairly chunky little girl out to the front of the class, and waving her arm in our direction announced that the two of us together probably weighed the same as an adult pig.

Yes, I’m serious, she really did that. I was 7 years old and the utter humiliation of that moment was the first time I recall feeling ashamed of the way I looked. I mean AS IF you would ever, ever, ever say that? I ran home after school in tears and my mum gave me a kit kat to make me feel better.

Fast forward a few years, to around the time that the film Grease came out in 1978. I was 13 at the time, and having watched the film at least 10 times and spent god knows how many weeks coveting a pair of shiny black leggings, (which were obviously going to transform me in the same way they’d transformed Sandy), I nagged my poor mum half to death. She clearly knew this purchase had disaster written all over it but eventually I wore her down – leggings duly purchased, I was very very pissed off when they didn’t in fact make me look like Sandy at all.

I’m still not sure whether it was because my legs were a foot shorter than hers, or because my arse was at least a foot wider – it might even have been down to the fact that the only thing I had to team them with was a pair of sensible Clarks’ sandals and a poncho (stop laughing, ponchos were all the rage at the time).

But if my memory serves me right, the school disco didn’t end with me making sweet music with the year nine stud muffin. Or even the year 9 munter to be fair…I think what was in those pants on that night scared all of us, and there are several people who probably still have a phobia of lycra to this day.

Things could only get better from there, right?

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Relocation

Freeform thoughts, In the here & now, , ,

Tonga-Island-Picture

I’ve often thought that maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Instead of dieting, perhaps I should just relocate to the South Pacific –  on the island of Tonga for example, to put it bluntly, fat women are where it’s at…if you’re fat, you’re in. And did you know, in Mauritania,  there’s even a ‘wife fattening farm’ – imagine that.  Rumour has it that stretch marks are a major turn-on for Mauritanian blokes…I must nip down to WH Smith and order the Mauritanian edition of FHM, just to have a look. The ultimate body shape in that neck of the woods (I shit you not) apparently comprises cascading stomach flab, overlapping thighs and a neck with ripples of fat. I mean come ON…it’s clearly my spiritual home.

In the same magazine article, which I found in Marie Claire (the irony wasn’t lost on me) they referenced a young woman who was using dodgy under-the-counter medication to increase her appetite because she was desperate to be bigger.  It seems that wherever in the world you live, your self-esteem takes a battering if your body shape doesn’t conform.

Not that I’m banging the ‘big is beautiful’ drum. To some people it may well be…my best male friend for example is particularly partial to a well built lady. He’d be more likely to fantasise about a hippo swinging on a grape over Miley Cyrus  on her wrecking ball, but I’m not in that space at all. I don’t especially want to be a size zero – given my years of yo-yo dieting I’d end up looking like a shar pei puppy if I took my clothes off.  But normal, average, medium sized…yes please.

So, where do I sit right now..? On the scale of thin – slender – slim – average – curvy – cuddly – large – extra large – fat knacker – sumo – mobility impaired – needs a crane to leave the house, I’m definitely a decent fat knacker with one foot in sumo. My knee hurts, all the time.  My feet ache, my back aches, and I can’t walk up a flight of stairs without being really out of breath. I can feel my backside following me when I walk and I’ve even got a spare tyre on my spare tyre. I’ve woken up more than once in a cold sweat, after a night terror where I’ve seen myself living out my days with my belly tucked into a pair of trackie pants, chins flapping in the breeze as I pootle around on a mobility scooter.

But I’m not going there. I’ve decided I’m going the other way.  And in the last 9 days, every step has been in the right direction. For now, I’m still in the game 🙂

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