Life’s Too Short for Fake Butter, Cheese, or People

It has been all over the Internet.  Last week’s episode of Louie, titled “So Did the Fat Lady,” has struck a chord with viewers. One monologue in particular stood out, in which Vanessa (played brilliantly by Sarah Baker) explains to Louis C.K. the difficulties of a fat woman trying to date. You can see it here:

http://www.cnn.com/2014/05/14/showbiz/tv/louis-ck-fat-girl/

It’s hard for me to call Vanessa fat. I know how much that can hurt. But after listening to her speech, I need to call her fat. She demands that we call her fat. Because words matter. But they still can hurt.

Earthquake called me fat several times over the 2.5 years I knew him. I can call up the memory of each instance as if it has just happened. I can tell you where we were and what we were doing. Sometimes it was delivered in the form of a text message. Sometimes he would say it sitting next to me on the couch. The last time he did it, I remember fighting the tears that were stinging my eyes, trying to spill over.

Earthquake did nothing but lie to me for the entire span of our relationship. The more time that goes by, the more I keep uncovering lie after painful lie. I cannot believe a single word that came out of his mouth.

So why is it so easy to believe him when he calls me fat?

And here is the collateral damage of him calling me fat. Every time he would say something nice to me, I would always tack on “for a fat girl” in my head.

Which, I guess, is what I am. I guess I’m a fat girl.

 

But, "for a fat girl" didn’t start with Mr. E. It started in college.

When I was 20 years old, I worked in a record store. It was, by far, the coolest job around. Besides getting to be the envy of all other minimum-wage-earning college students, I had an endless supply of music, an employee discount, and the opportunity to meet some famous rock stars. Billy Idol is really short, in case anyone ever asks.

Anyway, there was a guy that worked there with me, and I would occasionally hang out with him, as newly-released-to-the-wild college kids are prone to do. The last time I hung out with him was after a basketball game. We were up in his room at the frat house (I know, I know… should’ve known then…) and we ended up having sex. And right in the middle of me having a very nice time, it happened.

A male voice shouted, “Fuck the fat chick.” There were several of his frat brothers outside his window, watching the whole time. And from that incident was born a neurosis that I still have.

If I was seen as fat then—when I was in the best shape of my life—what chance did I have to ever be anything else?

I guess I’m a fat girl.

That night was the first time I learned that my body would never be what was deemed socially acceptable and beautiful. And I so wanted it to be those things. Before that night, it just never occurred to me to be embarrassed, or self-conscious, or body-shamed. But from that night on, it was permanently lodged in the back of my mind.

I wonder… If people knew that something they said in a moment of no importance to them would indelibly attach to the psyche and self esteem of the person being targeted… I wonder if that would cause people to think for two seconds before they speak.

I doubt it.

I am a fat girl, but I am strong as hell. Mentally and physically. And I’ll be damned if I can’t take a hit. Under my fat, there is a shitload of muscle. And a shitload of gritty determination.

I wouldn’t give up one tenth of my strength to get rid of all of my fat.  Don’t get me wrong. I’d give up other things: a single toe (but not the cute little pinky one), the ability to install flooring, the book I have signed by Martin Luther King, Jr. (But not the one signed to me from Stephen King; I do have my priorities.)

Sometimes, I want to eat buttery popcorn in the middle of the night so I don’t have to share it with Kidlet. Sometimes, I hide the remaining Oreo for the very same reason. I do emotionally eat. I know I do. But guess what? I am starting to think that is really not the worst thing in the world. If I can find some comfort, no matter how fleeting, in a pint of pistachio gelato… I think that is ok. I need to find all the comfort I can right now.

It took me 40 years to find a place where I can go and leave all my body issues and insecurities at the door. Should I be at all surprised to learn that the place was not in a person my scar-riddled brain loved?

Anyone who has ever watched more than three romantic comedies knows that confidence is never in the place you think you will find it.

Derby girls come in all shapes and sizes. And each shapely size can play their strengths. There are not many places on earth—let alone in sports—that recognize body diversity among their players as a strength and asset. But Roller Derby does. It welcomes all. The only thing it asks of you is courage and determination. And those are things that cannot be measured on a scale.

I’m finally surrounded by a group of people who truly love me and could not care less about the size of my jeans. They know my worth cannot be measured by the number on a hanger.

In Roller Derby, my beautiful, round ass is an asset. I have been told that under no circumstances am I to lose dat ass. It is a blocker’s dream booty. And it is a jammer’s nightmare.

Some Assembly Required

It is the first anniversary of my Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis. Over these last 12 months, my world has been shaken up like an airport-gift-shop snow globe. And now I find myself trying to reassemble my life. I’m putting the pieces back together, scars and all.

In the 40 years B.C. (Before Central nervous system betrayal), I never could imagine the havoc being wreaked on my central nervous system. I was blissfully unaware that my immune system was devouring my myelin.

Now, in year 2 A. D. (After Diagnosis), everything is different. But nothing has changed. I am finding that things are infinitely more complicated now. At the same time, things are immeasurably more straightforward.

And that is a strange and wonderful place to be.

Here is a perfect example. I am back in the dating pool. I can’t decide if I am ridiculously stupid or ridiculously optimistic. But, I am dating. Which—let’s face it—kind of sucks. I am starting to be convinced that the only reason people couple up is so they can quit having first dates. (Well, except those people that will never STOP having first dates. But, I digress…)

I wrestle with telling dates about my MS. Should I tell them early in the first evening, so that they can make an informed decision regarding setting up a date number two? Or tell them after date six, when they are already thinking that they might kind of like me? It’s complicated.

And, it is also so simple. Explaining to dates about my MS tells them one thing about me. How they react tells me everything about them. So, MS is actually a fairly sharp tool that can help me remove liabilities before they take root in my life.

Occasionally, when driving with my son on some silly errand, he will drop a wisdom bomb on me from his place in the backseat. His latest one was lobbed my way this weekend:

Sometimes good things happen because bad things happen. If you didn’t have MS, you would have never have started Derby.

Kidlet is right. I never would have had the courage to even show up to tryouts. And last week, I found the courage to try a jump. I let all eight of my wheels lift from the ground and land again. That was an incredible moment for me. I never would have experience that feeling if I didn’t have MS.

This last year made me realize that there are no safe places. You never know where and when pain will sneak out of a dark corner and jump on you. There is physical pain. Quite a bit, actually. But the emotional pain is so much worse. And it happens in the most banal places. The neurologist’s waiting room. A Little League game. The break room at work.

I’m never really safe. So why bother to play it safe? There is disaster wreckage piled up in every corner of my life. But, now… I dare to jump over it.

Unfortunately, as my body gets stronger, my brain continues to betray me. And, really, is there anything worse than betrayal? In the Aaron Sorkin show The Newsroom, one of my favorite of many brilliant exchanges was:

Why can’t I forgive her?

Because you weren’t rejected. You were betrayed.

This year has been a year of betrayal for me. I think betrayal is one of the worst feelings found in the human experience. My brain, my heart, my trust have all been shredded. But this has also been a year of great discovery. I’ve met some amazing people, who constantly remind me that I am strong, and beautiful, and amazing, and balanced.

My life today would be unrecognizable to the Elys of one year ago. The Who and the What of the future have all been undone. Disassembled. Now, my body is covered with bruises. Some are little and round, created by injecting myself with Interferon Beta‎. Others are large and round, created from a skate wheel. My muscles are stronger and tougher than they have ever been before. Including—for better or worse—my heart.

Everything is different.

And nothing has changed.

It’s very complicated. And incredibly simple. I know what I want. I want to trust others. I want to feel safe. I want to take care of my loved ones and be taken care of by them. I want to laugh more than I cry. I want to go to bed every night knowing that the people I loved through the day will be worthy of my love tomorrow.

And I know great beauty is born of chaos.