As the five month anniversary of the day Roosevelt became part of my life approaches, all I can say is that I feel that I am going through the five stages of grief as I continue to recover from surgery.
Because I am still recovering. Mentally and physically. Roosevelt's creation was not a joke.
I am one big anger ball these days. As my one co-worker puts it, I have acute grumpitis. Might be because we've been short staffed all summer. Might be because I have not had much vacation in the past two years. Might be because last night I made one of my all time favorite dinners, only to vomit it all back up. Might be because I'm losing my patience. Might be because the shit that comes out of the mouths of others just floors me. Might be because it's too damn hot outside. Might be because after years of just grinning and bearing it when it comes to putting up with others, I no longer am content to do just that.
I was afraid for so long to truly be myself. I played nice. I didn't say what was always on my mind, because fat people are jolly. We are supposed to be invisible. We don't deserve to have an opinion because we've inflated our bodies by eating too much junk food and by being lazy. Fat people don't get a say because they've ruined their lives voluntarily by not being able to put the fork down. Obviously, our thoughts, feelings and opinions cannot be valid, since we don't take care of ourselves, since we're fat. And fat is not good. Fat is the worst thing anyone can be. God forbid if you're smart, kind, generous to a fault, loving and wickedly funny, but just happen to be fat.
The anger might be because the other day, I had a conversation with a man who flirted with me. A man I've known for close to two years, who never showed me any type of kindness before.
Or the anger might be because a well meaning friend told me I needed to come up with a good story for waitresses who grill me on why I don't finish my meal, which is particularly bothersome to them when I order a side dish as my main course.
Or it might be due to the fact that the questions people ask me are just ridiculous. Or their comments are just so damn insulting. Yes, I understand that folks want to know more about the creation of Roosevelt, my tiny little tummy. I understand that since a lot of folks don't want to talk about having had weight loss surgery, it might be unusual to meet someone who is willing to be so open about it.
However, the folks who compare it to being pregnant, the folks who say they understand how I feel to be miserably full, how frustrated I get that the taste of water makes me retch...they don't. You cannot understand what I am going through unless you have had the exact same surgery and the exact same recovery issues. Looking up information on the internet does not make you an expert on my surgery. I don't need to be reassured by a well meaning, albeit clueless individual that they read that what I am going through physically is normal. It does not help.
Having this surgery has made me more empathetic. I realize just how callous I have been before in interactions with others. And now know that it's is perfectly okay to say "I have no idea what you must be going through, but I am here for you." That really can be good enough.
I was thinking of abandoning this blog, as for me, writing about this, sharing the photographs I've shared, baring my soul...I might as well strip down and pose on the cover of a magazine naked, that is how exposed I feel. (I wouldn't break the internet like Kim Kardashian) I am such a private person, due to years of feeling like I could not share my true feelings and opinions, that this is terrifying to me. Not to mention being made to feel that my writing, that my voice wasn't good enough, due to my mentor in my MFA program, but that's a whole other series of blogs. For someone who used to write daily, then went to being paralyzed every time she put a pen in her hand, finding my voice again is exhilarating. It is also terrifying. Every word I write, I have to silence the voice in my head telling me my thoughts and feelings are worthless, that I don't have the experience to write. That I'm a failure at something I have loved for years.
I'm not going to stop though. Thanks to people reaching out to me, telling me that they have found comfort in what I have written, it quiets the voice in my head that tells me I'm not a good writer. What I am doing, writing so openly about my surgery, about life post Roosevelt, it needs to be done. And lucky me gets to be the one who shares it.
And it is healing to be writing again. It help take the edge off my anger.
Anyhow, I am trying to embrace my anger. I numbed myself for so long with food that part of my recovery is learning how to be my authentic self for everyone.
And that means losing my patience with people who piss me off. It is okay to get mad. It is okay to stand up for myself. I never needed to be a doormat.
And while I have a little tiny version of Fat Darcey on my one shoulder, telling me to be sweet and kind, to not cause any waves, because no one likes a mean fat girl, that I just need to smile and be polite. I also have the other Darcey on my other shoulder, who tells me to say whatever the hell I want, to not care about what others think, because her time has come to be heard.
These two Darceys need to become one. I am not a inherently mean person. But I sure as hell am not anyone's doormat either. It's about finding the balance between the two. It's about knowing when to let fat Darcey come out and when to let the other Darcey out. Lord knows I am having trouble with this. But while there'a a long list of things I just don't know, I do know that I am definitely not perfect nor do I ever think I will be.
it's just scary to be shedding so much, physically and mentally. I do not want to add baggage as I lose poundage. I don't need to replace visible weight with invisible weight.
And maybe that's why I'm mad, because I'm fighting this battle. And it is a battle. And it's a lonely battle. I have a handful of people who understand and just let me be and I thank God for their presence in my life. This is the one of the hardest things I have ever done. I just need people to sit with me and let me be, not try to explain to me how I must be feeling, not tell me I need to come up with a good story to justify my new eating behavior, to tell me that I just need a glass of wine, etc.
I realize it's hard for people too, who knew me before Roosevelt, as I am not the exact same person. However, If they are not willing to accept me with Roosevelt and to get to know me as I am now, then I don't need them in my life.
I just laugh when I think about what my biggest worry was pre Roosevelt--I was terrified I would lose too much hair once I had the surgery. Nothing else was on my mind but how my hair would look.
My hair looks fucking fabulous, praise the lord.
And for tonight, that helps appease a bit of the anger, because shallow Darcey is relieved that while internally she may be a mess, that she has to rely on Spanx to hold her loosening skin into place, that she still has 3.5 chins, that she wants to start a go fund me campaign to pay for a body lift & tummy tuck, but no matter how long the laundry list of things she has fault with may be, at least her hair looks good.
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