Yeah, I’m definitely fat, and it’s fine that you notice. You can even mention it. Your intentional weight loss doesn’t particularly disturb me, either–it’s your body and your choice. I choose not to abuse my body with calorie restriction or my heart with self-hatred or my mind by believing everything the medical types say. But you knew that.
*shrug*
No offense.

What not to Think (unless you want to cry)

Of all the important things in the world, why do I keep blogging about how I relate to my body and the demands placed upon it by society? It’s not like that even measures up to…anything.

The right thing at the right time.

Somewhere in the world today
there is a laboring woman
who needs a cesarean
to preserve her body
and possibly the life of her baby

I wish the operation were transferable
’cause nearly three years ago
someone gave one to me
and I’ve never had any use for it

What if I’d Rather Raise H***?

I only sort of played the what-color-bra-are-you-wearing game on Facebook. “Ah, none for me, thanks” I statused when (after hours of colors) I was let in on the joke.

None for me… No sharing about my undergarments in the mixed company that is my friends list?

No bra?

Truth

I had depression. Maybe you don’t believe me because I didn’t get a doctor to tell me what I’d already figured out.

I had depression. A bout or two in my young adult years while completely surrounded and supported by family–so how much worse was it when it came again? So far away from familiarity, identity. With a new baby and sliced up insides. With thirty pounds of new flesh on my bones.

Anxiety. Paranoia. What if They ever found this, knew it was me? They threatened to take my children once already. They look at mental health history, they do.

Some days I am actually afraid to go outside. Afraid to be seen. Most days though, it’s just too much effort.

I had depression. Now I must always be on my guard, watching for the beginnings I can recognize. Sometimes it starts in embarrassment over some random mistake I made hours or years before–truly–and embarrassment quickly turns to feelings of being stupid, which in turn pave the way for self-loathing and despair. Sometimes in a matter of minutes.

And you know what gets me? All the times in the last year and a half of suddenly feeling more like myself–my healthy self. No one day when the world went right again. Just steps, increments of wellness, climbing higher, thinking how slippery is the way back down.

8 Weeks

So it’s been 8 weeks now.
It was about 34 hours from first twinge to birth.
1 hour waiting to push,
20 minutes pushing.

I did it.
8 weeks ago.

[the letter I won't send]

Why didn’t I inform you when sensations began?
Why didn’t I summon you when they grew closer together, more intense?
Why didn’t I beg for you near the end when I paced in discomfort and roared in pain, couldn’t pee, leaned over the sink waiting to push?

The Status is not Quo

My wedding ring still resides on my littlest finger, its home since it went back on my hand a few months after baby number one.
My stop-gap jeans (two sizes up from pre-[this]-preg) are now too big. I must be the size in-between.
My body image has caught up so I see this 200+ pound version of me as correct. Three and four-year-old photos no longer induce the sad pining.
My short, short hair is more suited to this body as well. Buzz cut before Creation ‘05 made me look like a boy, before the bleaching at least.
My pelvis, my feet, my breasts, (various other parts)…changed.
Did I get my body back? You tell me.

Mirrormother

When it comes to me, I have no perspective, and there’s a part of me that is very comfortable with feeling bad. Then I’m important, not subject to the laws of nature; I’m the worst and darkest.

What is this internal, familiar reward I receive for the
“oh, I don’t need to eat now”s
the
“there’s no time to paint”s
the
“but going for a walk is too hard”s
the laters
the nevers
the indulgent sorrow over bodily asymmetry and damage and changing size?

Would I be this towards another mother in my care and home?

Surely I would bring her water
find her food
encourage her in the activities that are hers beyond the baby and the house
help her find ways to move her body
ways to go outside

Would I not listen to her mourn the loss of her old body then seek to help her rejoice in the new
to be gentle with herself
to get new clothes if needed and to not think of when those jeans might fit again
to be thankful
to then look beyond body and self and to say
“Here I am, Lord”?

Neither Here…

3 weeks, 2 days, and I’m in-between.

Maternity jeans falling down, but I’m not yet ready for my good old size 18s.

No appointments on the calendar with those who have invaded, but we’re not yet released from their over-zealous hands.

Paperwork for passports, visas, and more in progress, but the move isn’t certain and certainly isn’t yet.

Some friends give us Psalms, some tell us not to take it all personally. Some understand, some don’t but don’t say nothin’ at all (if they can’t say somethin’ nice.)

I wait for the Lord to rescue me while I wonder if I should make complaints.

I am brave. I am frustrated. I am in love.

Babymoon still in progress, I prepare for the world, closing up my open, open mind.

I discover that victory and victimization can co-exist. I choose to push my thoughts back to the former, no longer existing in old pain and fighting against the new.

I tell the truth, but only parts of it to some. (as everyone does) I wonder if I’ve lied, too.

Miss real life. Miss conversations, hugs, the hard work of seeing and being seen.

The chosen guest is cherished now, as is the friend with uncritical eyes, the mother with wisdom and pride, the sister whose frame of reference allows her understanding from few words.

I’m in-between homes. Old world new, New world old.
Kingdom come–so far away?

I’m nothing to the world, but everything to one hungry babe.
I can live with that.