Coming Home Part I

Thomas Wolfe famously said what we always have known, but have to relearn over and over, “You can’t go home.” I know that line. I know it to be true, but I did it anyway.

Florida was a trip. At times I felt like I was on vacation. An extended vacation with few responsibilities, plenty of good times, sun, sex, and sand, but it always felt like there was another world going on without me. At least it makes for a good story.

Summarization of the Last Three Years in Florida.

Let’s sum up the last three years, shall we? I moved to Florida after my divorce and I quit a job about five minutes before I was fired. I was friendless, about to be homeless, suicidal, and my romantic mistakes would be comical if they weren’t so dangerous. I lived with my father and step mom in Perdido Key close to the Alabama state line. I worked retail for awhile. That was a joke. I lived with a horrible man and his moody pre-teen son because life with my Dad and stepmother became unbearable. I thought he’d get me a job or get me started in online publishing. I went through a lot of savings with him, lost more than I earned, and he still never got me that job. I left broke but not broken.

Then I had a delicious summer affair that lasted about a year and a half with an older musician from the coast of Alabama. We were both divorced, but our relationship had all the passion and the transience of an affair, but it was love. He treated me like a princess. In my thirty-nine years, he might have been the only man to have ever loved me. He cured me. He healed some recent wounds from my marriage, and some old emotional scars from my childhood. He taught me how to love. He also taught me how to fuck. God, I had no idea what I was missing not being with a straight man for so long. Our affair was illicit, but I believe it was a Godsend. Who knew that angels came with such big cocks?

Male Angel

After I left that the mean Alabama man and took up with the musician, I got a shitty customer service job with a shitty cable company and finally got my own place. I lived in what I called the “concrete cave.” It was this little duplex made of concrete blocks and tile. It was a dumpy little place, but it survived many a hurricane. I all but hosed it down when I left. It was originally built as a “fish camp” and it was obvious that this dwelling was not designed for permanent residence. I called it a “non-bedroom” apartment because it was an “efficiency” where I put up a Japanese screen to separate the “bedroom” from the rest of the house. The only doors were to the bathroom and a tiny closet. It did have its own washer and dryer and they didn’t require a security deposit. Good thing because my credit was still pretty much fucked after the divorce. It could have been very depressing, but it was hard to be depressed when you live across the street from the beach, sail boats with Christmas lights on the mast, and $1000 a week condos. Every sunset was visual poetry, and my musician lover was a bit of an astronomer and we would look up at the stars. There was hardly any industry in Pensacola and I lived far away enough from the “city” that the stars sparkled in the night sky like my eyes for my lover. Besides, he would take me out for steak dinners, we ate fresh coastal seafood, and he would fuck me until I couldn’t walk straight and then buy me cookies. So, I gained a few pounds. They were happy pounds.

My actual house in Florida.  "The Concrete Cave"

My actual house in Florida. “The Concrete Cave”

But then, I had to get all ambitious. My Midwestern work ethic would take a break for too long. Besides, I got really sick that spring and really needed some health insurance. I got a good job at a bank in their customer service center and my career was back on track. My Midwestern self does not feel comfortable unless I have a certain amount of work drudgery. I also did not trust love that came so easily or love with a man who could bring me happiness, but no real stability or “build a life together.” We finally parted ways and I took up with a fellow Midwesterner.

I thought this Midwesterner was like me: down on his luck after a divorce and having to live with family until he got his life together. I only lived with family (or with that horrible Alabama man) for about six months. It turns out the Midwesterner had lived with his mother in Florida for more than three years. For some reason, this was not a deterrent. He wasn’t a bad man. He was also super handsome. Handsome men make women do stupid things. I believed him when he said he’d get promoted, finally get legally divorced, and we’d start a family. I once again tried to save someone. I moved off the beach into town and we ended up moving in together. I did get promoted at the bank and I thought I could support the two of us on $30,000 a year. I was wrong. Although I had agreed to it, I resented working so hard just to be broke. He did work to pay his own bills but did not contribute to the household unless I begged. I was short every month. I never did anything, I had no friends, and I began to hate him. It was a foolish mistake. My love for him turned to bitterness and I had pretty much checked out of the relationship way before we officially broke up.

I went “home” for a high school reunion in the summer of 2013. For the record, I HATED high school. I was an overweight, overeager, underachieving smart choir girl who’s only friends were fundamentalist Christians who only befriended me because they were contractually obligated by their religion to allow me to hang out with them. So, needless to say, you can imagine what my teens years were like. Once I went to college, I lost weight, started hanging out with more “artsy” people, and became more “reasonable” about religion. I became Episcopalian. Even at my high school graduation I remember saying to my angst-ridden self, “I hope never to see you people again”. But for some reason, I still went. I missed my baby nieces and it seemed like a good time to go home for a break.

The reunion was something out of an Eighties teen movie. It was like I emerged this beautiful, confident woman like a Phoenix from the ashes when all those people knew of me was the nerdy worm. I was unfaithful and kind of made out with a classmate in a parking lot. I was bad. I know it. I do not justify my actions. Judge me if you so choose, I deserve it. Although I was wrong, that experience taught me that my high school trauma was over and I was miserable in my current relationship. I was a capable, beautiful, independent woman who could have any man I wanted. I broke up with my boyfriend immediately upon my return. I ended up having to break up with him a couple more times for it to stick.

I looked just like this girl... Yeah, just like her.

I looked just like this girl… Yeah, just like her.

Besides the hook up, which was more innocent in retrospect, I also met up with some good friends who turned out to really love me and supportive of me. I started networking and working to get back home. I fell in love with my baby nieces on that visit as well. They were only 18 months and four months at the time. I vowed to not miss anymore of their precious babyhoods. It is amazing how children make you grow up, even when they are not your own.

I sent out resumes, came up for an interview, and did several interviews until finally, after the first of the year and hiring budgets are reopened, I landed a phone interview with a prestigious financial firm on their banking side. My ambition and will to return was greater than my low self esteem and I went for it. I had never worked harder to get a job in my life. I was hired over the phone. My start date was delayed because of the awful winter, but that was okay by me. The universe smiled upon me, got me a good job that was a significant pay raise over my current job, had career potential, and would bring me home. I also got to miss the “polar vortex” and return in March. I temped for a few weeks. Couch surfed at a friend’s and my mom’s house and then started on with my new life.

I left the boyfriend off at his mother’s house from whence he came. He probably still hates me and is chalking up our relationship as a major fail. I deserve it. I feel badly about it. I did love him, but it just was not going to work out. Our relationship reminded me a little too much like “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman. My experience proves that whenever your life resembles a 90′s folk or alternative song, its time to make a change. Because, as the 90′s songstress Sheryl Crow will tell you, “A change will do you good.”

Fast Car

So I’m home….kind of. More on that later.

 

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12 Signs I Ignored That My Husband Was Gay (Signs 5-12)

5.  He was great at shopping.  I know that is a stereotype, but it is true.  We spent a stupid amount of money.  I did not want to “deal” with the finances therefore I had no idea how much debt we were in until we were in the divorce lawyer’s office.  We would spend money on entertainment, trips, gifts, and other just plain stuff in the hopes it would distract us from the fact we were not really getting along.  This was especially true towards the end.  I keep wondering if we were happier when we were both poor and heavy together.  It was when we both slimmed down (he more than me) and started making some real money did we pull apart.  I say that knowing that he was always gay; he was just too fat and poor (for his liking) to be of the “elite” gay.   Only when he was slim and rich did he believe a man could want him.  I know the feeling.

A couple who shops together go in debt together...or separately. Let's just say an "authorized user" on your credit card is on of the STUPIDEST financial decisions you can EVER make.

A couple who shops together go in debt together…or separately. Let’s just say an “authorized user” on your credit card is on of the STUPIDEST financial decisions you can EVER make.

6.  He had a makeover.  His appearance and clothes changed dramatically in about the last two to four years we were married, especially the last two.  He lost about seventy pounds through The Atkins Diet that he followed religiously and running on a treadmill 3-5 days a week.  To me he was never “fat.”  He just had the Midwestern “chubby hubby” look a lot of men get in their thirties.  He was a bit nerdy when I met him.  He was a chemical engineer when I met him and looked the part. He dressed very plainly but not too terribly, wore glasses, and had some acne issues.  He did go to an engineering conference once and his co-workers teased him about being the “best dressed engineer.”  I just laughed it off, considering the source. About year eight, after the miscarriage and the beginning of the bad and infrequent sex, he went on some serious anti-acne meds, started using “product” in his hair, went from an $8 haircut to $25, and his clothes were no longer just khakis, jeans, and polos from JC Penny.  He began to wear dress slacks, designer jeans, and various shirt options from the likes of Nordstrom and Calvin Kline.  My wardrobe did not change a lot.  Sure I went from a size 24 to a size 18 but I still had to buy “plus-sized” clothing so I did not think I deserved (or could purchase) anything as nice as his.  I thought if I got down to a size 14 or 12, then I would EARN my way to designer clothes.

See this self-worth theme keep cropping up?  I believed he was better than me and deserved nicer things. He made more money, he had lost the weight and I did not.  No wonder he gets to have nicer clothes and does not want to make love to me anymore.

7.  He was WAY too into Halloween.  I love Halloween and we had the BEST time coming up with our costumes each year.  You read about “Count Cockula.”  Should have known…. Anyway, we often would come up with very clever “couple” costumes.  We were Mardi Gras revelers once with masks; we were “victims of downsizing” where we dressed up like office zombies.  That was fun.  We were the Witches of the East and West from “The Wizard of Oz” where I was the Wicked Witch of the West with green make up and a broom and he was The Wicked Witch of the East where he wore a cardboard house over his body and just green and white stockings and red ruby slippers.  It was brilliant, but you would think a man that knows that much about The Wizard of Oz might have been “A friend of Dorothy.”  Once again, a stereotype, but sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason.

8.  He was never that into my body.  I am not saying he was “bad in bed.”  I am not.  Consider how “skilled” a man can become when he is desperately trying to cover up such a deep, dark secret.  For years, he was so good that I thought his homosexuality was all in MY head.  He just did not have the same, let’s say, enthusiasm about the female form that I have found in other straight lovers.  He did not hunger for my body like other men seem to.  This hunger sometimes embarrasses me as a grown woman.  Perhaps when I was young and innocent with a lot of hang ups about sex and my own body I could not handle “the hunger”.  I cannot help but wonder if I was complicit in some way that I married a gay man and let it go on for so many years because of my own shame issues.

Sex is not everything, but in this arena, a more experienced woman would have picked up on some clues. I was not “technically” a virgin, but pretty close.  For about six to eight years, roughly, or sex life was pretty good.  People ask me about this all the time.  Yes, he turned out to be gay, but he was attracted to me at first and could perform for many years with me without the help of porn, Viagra or anything.  He was attracted to me physically, could maintain an erection and we did have a pleasing sex life for about half our marriage.  It was sweet and tender.

I do not want to get into too many details.  It would be tacky and take away from the magic that was the early years of our marriage.  Like I have said before, I loved this man and he loved me.  I would hazard to say that we still love each other and always will at least in some form.  People say I am “too easy” on him and should be way more angry. I am, but we knew each other like husband and wife for many years.  I am so sad that he had to keep this greatest secret from me.  I do believe we were soul mates.  Maybe soul mates do not have to be married or even live in the same town to have that special connection.  That is why I defend him is because he is still a part from me.  Even with all that, now that I have been exposed to what real love can be like, I resent him not giving his all to me.

Towards the end, he rarely looked at my body while we making love.  Although he did find me aseptically pleasing in the nice clothes that he would choose for me.

Too Much Information Warning!!!!

The last year of our marriage he could only respond to be was if he took me from behind.  The longest time we did not indulge in this position.  At the end this was the only way I could make him come or even keep him hard (other than with my mouth).  He could only get off if he did not have to look at my breasts or face.  Don’t get me wrong, like many girls we like it doggie style every once and awhile, but all the time it can make a girl wonder.  Actually, it destroyed me.  I was really picking up on the idea that he no longer desired me.  He really, really would prefer a man and do things with men only men could do.  No wonder how sweet I was, how thin, how pretty I was or could become, and I could not make him want me.

9.  He always made me initiate.  In his own words he said if we ever had sex it was because I initiated 95% of the time.  He said he had sex with me to make me happy.  I told him not to bother.  He made me feel like a wanton whore just for wanting my husband.  Men who have tried to love me have to undo a lot of bad programming.

10.  Never jealous.  Men can sense if they have a chance with a woman or not.  Her marital status is immaterial.  She does not have to do anything to warrant this attention.  Her availability is subconscious.  Maybe it is pheromones, maybe it is the evolutionary hunger that women have too to procreate and her body sends out all kinds of signals to eligible, viable, viral men to alert them to her fertility. Her body is letting the world know that she has eggs ready and available and they are not being fertilized by her chosen mate.  Her body is telling any man in a certain radius, “touch me, fill me, make me happy and I will make you happy.”  It is chemical; it is psychological, and rather subversive.  We cannot help it.  The only thing to stop this hunger, the growling emptiness of our womanhood is to love your woman and fuck her properly and often.  That will keep the wolves and her own appetite at bay.

"Hey, I hear there is an unhappily married woman right over there"

“Hey, I hear there is an unhappily married woman right over there”

I told my husband about men that were hitting on me making me nervous.  I told him about his own friends making passes at me. I even told him about a rather humiliating, frightening sexual harassment issue at work and he did absolutely nothing.  He never defended me.  He did not want me, why would he think any other man would.  Maybe he secretly thought if I were getting it somewhere else that meant he would not have to and I will stay out of guilt.

11.  Everyone knew but me.  There were some that suspected form the very beginning, but he cleverly covered his inclinations and quelled suspicions.  He was a marvelous actor.  He was always the consummate game player.  He knew the game he was playing; he was in control of all the pieces and knew how to win.  What was the prize?  Was keeping the secret the prize?  Not fulfilling his true nature, finding someone (who would have to be a man) that would make him truly happy the prize?  Was I the prize?  The trophy?  No, sadly, I think I was just “the beard.”  I hate that word.  It hurts me, but it is true.

This is a variation of my 2009 Halloween costume.  I was a little naive to really pull it off, so I guess I was "asking" for it.

This is a variation of my 2009 Halloween costume. I was a little naive to really pull it off, so I guess I was “asking” for it.

12.  He was willing to give me away.  The last party we attended as a couple was, ironically, a Halloween party at our friend’s house who was gay in a gay neighborhood.  I was one of only about four girls in a part of over 40 men.  Several guys came up to me and asked if my husband was bi.  They asked me this to my face.  I was pretty much a stranger.  I knew the host and a few other people.  Maybe they thought that it was so obvious my husband was gay/bi that I had to know and therefore not a shock if they asked.  Maybe they assumed I was okay with it.  I was asked by about five different people to be in a threesome.  They thought my husband and I were cute and would like to “try out” a woman.  There were also a few guys there that were previously with women and even had children with these girls.  Often, they did not have full custody.  One guy said, “If I liked pussy, I’d start with yours.”  He then proceeded to touch my breasts like they were just open to everyone like cantaloupe at a fruit stand.  Okay, they are more the size of grapefruit, but you get the idea.  One older guy dressed up as a priest pulled me in by my collar and kissed me, with tongue, in front of several guests in the kitchen.  He did not care.  Yes, everyone was drinking, but still, huge faux pas.  Obviously he did not see my husband as a threat.  Upon leaving he came up to my husband and said “You’ve got one firecracker of a wife there.”  I believe under most circumstances behavior like that could get you a stern talking to by the husband/boyfriend if not a trip to the hospital.  If you love a woman, you don’t just give her away.  We “broke up” thirteen days later.  It was the beginning of the end.

 

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12 Signs I Ignored That My Ex-Husband Was Gay (Signs 1-4))

How did I not know?  There were signs, even from the beginning that I either was too ignorant to know the difference, too trusting and believed his explanations, or downright denied the evidence right in front of me.  Never underestimate the power of denial.

1.  He made me kiss him first.  I know that this is the era of women’s lib, but still often men make the first move. Men are the pursuers just waiting for an invite so they can bring the party.  That was not the case with my ex.  He said he liked me but refused to kiss me first.  Maybe it was a game, I do not know.  I have pecked a guy on the cheek or even the lips first to let him know it was okay to take it further especially if the guy was particularly shy but any kind of heavy kissing he has to initiate before it goes to the next level.  Sure there are women that are more aggressive than that, but I wonder if I were not as eager that I might have caught on sooner.  However, we were great friends and we did have certain chemistry right off the bat.  I swear.  Neither of us was really desperate, we just really felt something for each other very quickly. Looking back, I see that any escalation physically was of my encouragement.  I feel bad about this now.  Why did I not insist on being pursued.  I am not saying that guys HAVE to be the aggressors and women keep him at bay, but now I wonder how much of our physical relationship was an attempt to keep me “happy” or to throw off my radar of his true nature.

kissing

2.  He did not want to live with me and chose to share an apartment with his “best friend” instead leaving me practically homeless.  I am sure he would tell the story of our year long engagement differently.  I just remember only seeing each other on weekends and living on my father’s couch that summer/fall.  Even my conservative mother thought it was weird.  I just thought he was being moral, a good friend, and trying to help me “find my own way.”  I have found if a man lives by himself and is in an exclusive relationship he wants the girl to move in.  He may not be ready to commit to marriage, but he is ready to commit to free sex, and someone to cook, clean, do laundry and still pay half the rent.

3.  Our second year of marriage he went to a Halloween party as “Count Cockula.”  I wish to Christ I was making this up. He was the gayest vampire you ever care not to see.  He wore a fluffy white blouse of mine, black pants, a cape, fangs and lipstick.    His catch phrase was “I vant to suck….your blood.”  I thought this was hilarious at the time and that is was all in good fun. How did I not catch on?   He loved every Halloween, whether he was in a male or female costume, because I would put make up on him.  He loved it.  It was a time when we were very intimate.  He and I so close and my making him “pretty.”  I should have known, but I loved this rare yearly closeness he afforded me and I was so hungry for his attention that I was more grateful than suspicious.

Yeah, he pretty much looked just like this.

Yeah, he pretty much looked just like this.

4.  Gay porn.  (A history)

The first time I found gay porn on his computer, he explained it away with hackers.   When I found in his history on his computer when I was innocently looking for the website for movie times I found a “college cock” link and other gay porn websites that shocked this young, impressionable church girl.  I remember my stomach churning and I wanted to vomit.  Not because of the male naked form that I have an issue with homosexuality, or even because I had never looked at porn before, because I hadn’t, really, it was because in the core of my being I knew.  I knew something was wrong with our marriage and this was the evidence.  Of course, when I confronted him about it, he said that we must have been hacked.  He even went so far as to call our internet provider, dress down the poor customer service representative (who probably knew better) and changed to another provider.  That is how deep the allusion was.  I believed it, because, why wouldn’t I?  Of course we were hacked because if not….

Year 5-  The fifth year of our marriage he was traveling a lot for his company and I had a tremendously stressful job teaching at an alternative high school.  I once again, innocently looked at the history of his computer looking up, once again, movie times and saw the familiar toned, bronzed bodies of young men in all sort of contortions and positions.  Oddly enough, I was on the phone with a friend with whom we were supposed to see a movie with that day and he said, “Watch out looking up his history, you might find gay porn or something.”  He said it as a joke, because, that would be ridiculous.  That familiar nausea returned only this time, the hacker excuse wouldn’t hack it.

He blamed me for his looking at gay porn and going on gay chat lines until three or four in the morning.  God knows what he did when he was traveling.  He blamed me because I was not fulfilling his needs because I was so stressed at work, he was gone a lot, I was needy, and crazy.  I began to believe him that I was crazy and I went to psychiatrists and was put on enough psycho-active drugs to make Nurse Ratchett blush.  He wasn’t gay, I was crazy.  I had driven him to this perversion (which I know it really isn’t) because I was such a emotionally needy and mentally unstable woman.  Either I was crazy or he was gay and I was kind enough to take the fall for the both of us.

He FINALLY admitted that he might be “bi” but loves me.  We went to couples counseling once.  He claims to have a porn addiction but is not gay. He says he looks at gay porn to “punish” himself or when I have neglected him in some way.  He promised to give it up.  I continue to go to counseling for years for MY emotional problems and was put on mood stabilizers I did not need until my liver function was affected as well as I was beginning to stutter and forget words.  I go to counseling some now but have not been on an anti-depressant or any kind of pyscho-active drug since the divorce.  Magically, I am “cured.”  More on that in another post.

This was the "tamest" picture I could find and it is just a Hollister ad.

This was the “tamest” picture I could find and it is just a Hollister ad.

Year 8- He says he looks at porn because I will not have sex with him.  I was recovering physically and emotionally from a devastating miscarriage and we still managed to have sex once or twice a month even though it hurt.  At this point, I stopped using his computer completely, avoided his office, and he bought me a laptop.

Year 11 and 12- The death rattle of our relationship.  I do not snoop, but I did see a couple of “missed calls” and even a few leading texts on his cell phone from men.  I did not want to know and never confronted him.  We were having fertility issues and it turns out that he has a very low sperm count and there is nothing wrong with me.  I blamed myself for our earlier fertility issues and the miscarriage when it turns out I am just fine.  At this point he is having impotence issues (only with me) and will barely touch me.  He, once again, blames me for my insistence on having a baby and that I am just over-sexed because I am hitting “my early thirties prime.”   Only this time, my faith in his excuses were waning as my faith in myself was growing.

(See Signs 5-12 in a later post)

 

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Behavior vs. Intention or The Most Bullsh*t Argument I Have Ever Heard

I HAVE to know.  For my own sanity and so I can move on with my life I have to know what my ex-husband “is.”  What team does he play on?  Does he really love me? Did he ever?

Is he:

A.“Gay” but tried to suppress it by marrying me although really did “love” me?

or

B.  Bisexual and started out straight with some gay tendencies and then gradually became more same-sex orientated after our failed attempts at having a family?

In the beginning, year two and five of our marriage when there were first signs, he said choice B.  He said that he loved me, was attracted to me, enjoyed me sexually but did have some homosexual tendencies that he expressed exclusively (he SAID) in gay porn.  He said it was a self-destructive and would stop.

The last year of marriage when we rarely had sex and when we did it was often mutually disappointing he said that he was bisexual and was just “nervous” about the probable failure to conceive.

After we divorced and we both started seeing other people he admitted that he knew he was sexually attracted to men in the eleventh grade, but he could only “fall in love” emotionally and intellectually with women but wanted to have sex with men.  His behavior was straight and he thought that was enough to “save” him from a gay lifestyle and save our marriage.

Well, at least he admitted it.  But it really makes me wonder where I stand.  I hate to be selfish, but it begs the question, what does my husband’s homosexuality have to do with me?

That is when he gets into his behavior vs. intention bullshit.

He was that his behavior was straight.  I was the only girl he “ever loved.”  Great.  You know, from a gay guy, this is not the big compliment you would think.  He did not go into his “intention” or at least I did not allow him. I could not bear the thought that the only way he could “respond” to me in bed was thinking about a guy’s hairy ass.  I am about as feminine as they come.  Yes, I am a “big girl” but I also have a very curvy shape, long hair, nice face, and just as cute as I can be.  I don’t say that to flatter myself, I just want to establish that I am not “mannish” nor the typical sad unattractive sad “fag hag”.  I was a beard in “behavior” not in intention.

Kinsey Scale:

The scale is as follows:

Rating

Description

0

Exclusively heterosexual

1

Predominantly heterosexual, only incidentally homosexual

2

Predominantly heterosexual, but more than incidentally homosexual

3

Equally heterosexual and homosexual.

4

Predominantly homosexual, but more than incidentally heterosexual

5

Predominantly homosexual, only incidentally heterosexual

6

Exclusively homosexual

X

Asexual, Non-Sexual

 

I believe in behavior and intention is a 1 on the Kinsey scale.  I love men.  I fall in love them and I am sexually attracted to them.  I have strong friendships with women and I have had an incident or two of experimentation with women, but I am straight.

My ex-husband… I don’t know.  I don’t think he even knows yet.  Of course there is the behavior vs. intention crap he talks about.  In his defense, it is “easier” socially to behave in a heterosexual manner.  Society expects a man to marry a woman, have children, a nice job, a house with the picket fence and all that.  But how difficult is it to fulfill society’s expectations if a person has to fight their nature all the time?

And if you were a woman, if you were me, would you want the man you love to “fight his nature” all the time just to make you happy?  Would you want to keep that nice house in the suburbs with the picket fence with no children and little hope for children if you have to worry if he is thinking of someone else every time he touches you, if he touches you?  Would you want to worry not if but when he stops fighting his nature and cheats on you with another man?  Would you want to walk around wondering if everyone else knows what you have known in your heart for years, that your husband loves you, but not really, not enough, not like other men would.  Could you hide behind the behavior vs. intention argument when his behavior is to be with you, but what his heart intends is something you can never give him?

The heart wants what the heart wants.

I gave up a very comfortable lifestyle with my successful husband.  My life is harder now without a partner and I have really had to struggle professionally and financially to get even close to the lifestyle I had in the latter years of our marriage.  More importantly, I fear I have lost the love of my life.  We clicked on so many levels, yet I remember all the times he lied to me, his selfish behavior, all the covering up at my expense so he would not have to face who he really was, even though it was entirely understandable.  But we both have to live authentic lives.  I miss the shopping at Crate and Barrel and our fancy brunches with suspiciously high male to female ratio, but it is worth it.  I miss him like crazy.  I miss our life, although I feel more secure in the life I created for myself than the life where I felt I was only a guest.

E tu Eggs Benedict?

E tu Eggs Benedict?

To live an authentic life, behavior and intention must be one in the same.  I will leave my comfortable life, and even the love of the first part of my life to seek that match.

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How a Straight Girl Can End with a Gay Boyfriend

Sexuality comes in all shapes, sizes and levels of attractiveness.  I also recognize that an individual’s sexuality can change over a lifetime.  However, there are certain things a girl can do to ensure she will end up with a gay guy.

1.  Grow up in a very religious and sexually repressed household.  Sex will be considered “bad” and all sexual feelings will be “sinful” and you will hardly have to discuss it with your parents, peers, or any trusted adult.  You will be so consumed with shame you will forget you have genitalia at all and will not be surprised a very nice boy comes along that enjoys your company but does not do anything “nasty” like try to touch your boobs.

Shame.  It's what's for dinner, and lunch, and breakfast.  Hey, why are you eating so much?  You want to be fat so no one loves you?

Shame. It’s what’s for dinner, and lunch, and breakfast. Hey, why are you eating so much? You want to be fat so no one loves you?

2.  Have some kind of hang up about your body.  Usually an overweight issue will suffice, although too skinny will work in a pinch.  Have something “wrong” with your body that makes you hate it and believe the rest of the world hates your body too.  This way you will not be surprised when your date has no interest in seeing you naked.  He is not being mean, he just never mentions it.  He is just respecting your “space” and he will reinforce every negative thought you already have about your body so this firmly ingrained belief will never be challenged.

3.  Have a mother that hates herself, her body, and is very uptight about sex, bodies and have her project all her fears upon her daughter.  I remember getting “in trouble” when I went from a training bra into a C-cup.  Yes, I skipped A-C through sheer embarrassment and just dealt with the discomfort rather than tell my mother I needed a new bra.  When I was sixteen, old enough to have my own job, I had my father drive me to the mall and shopped by myself for a new bra while he hung out in the electronics section.  We had a great don’t ask, don’t tell situation. Thankfully when I went up to a D cup I had a driver’s license and a job so my mother would never know. She still gives me a hard time when I wear a V-neck.  In fact, last time I saw her, she made mention of how big my bras were as she helped me pack.

4.  Be involved in the arts.  Sure, it is a cliché’ but it is true.  I wish there were more straight guys in the arts, but there aren’t.  I am not quite sure why the arts attract so many gay men.  Maybe it is a chance to show off.  Maybe it doesn’t attract gay men as much as it scares off straight men.  Why, I have no idea.  I have decided that choir is not a good dating pool, either.  Yes, there are straight guys in choir, but they are usually married, super-Christian, or just not that into me.

 

Cute couple, huh?

Cute couple, huh?

5.  Come from a broken home.  Divorced parents is not necessary, just enough discord between your parents will do so you have no real model of romantic love.  Therefore all your role models for love and family will be based movies, TV, and glimpses into your friends’ parents marriages that will make little sense to you.  If you do this, it will not be all that alarming when you are involved in a sham marriage.  You will think this is normal and everyone does it.  I did come from a two parent household although their marriage was troubled and eventually ended in divorce just when I started dating my gay ex-husband.  I am sure the timing of that was pure coincidence.  Or maybe I was grasping at some sense of family and love and I believed he would make that dream happen for me.  Okay, so I thought he’d be a lover like John Cusack from “Say Anything” and be a father like Cliff Huxtable from “Cosby Show”.  He was my dream man.  As far as my family was concerned, my father did the best he could but all his good nature and peace keeping efforts could not overcome my mother’s toxicity.  There is a whole other post, hell, a novel, of how my mother’s messed up views on marriage and homosexuality.  The fact that I am not currently on any kind of drugs, prescription or otherwise, is a miracle.

6.  Be a virgin before you get married.  Being that so few make it to high school graduation with the cherry intact, few or lack luster sexual experiences are fine.  I did not date at all in high school and the few dates I had my freshman year in college were more like attempted date rape and were rather scary.  My first “real” boyfriend was in my sophomore year of college.  We had a suitable sexual/romantic relationship even though we had hardly anything in common, he bored the shit out of me, and he could only manage the missionary position even though he was in perfect health.  I suspect he was a bit bisexual too, but he supposedly has a wife and child now.  Good for him.  My ex-husband was very romantic, talked to me all the time, wrote me poetry, and we had great sex with varying positions and great amount of frequency.  I don’t know if I was fooled as much as deliriously happy.  You would be happy too.  You would also be heartbroken if you thought a moment of that happiness was contrived or a cover for what he really wanted because all I ever wanted was him.

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The Slippery Slope to Bisexuality Part III: A Lesbian Trapped in a Man’s Body

If only.  If only there were such a thing as a lesbian trapped in man’s body, because I would like to sign up for some of that.

When men say that, what they really mean is “I love to perform oral sex, but we’re going Dutch on the check, right?”  Only half of that okay with me.  Guess which one.

This comment, I suspect, has mostly to do with their expression of their williness to do certain sexual favors for women that do not involve their penis.  And for that we are grateful.  They (hopefully) mean that they are not shy about using their mouths are and fingers to get you off first so you are nice, wet, and willing when they bring on the big guns, the headliner, the whole enchilda.  If that is true, Men, we are grateful.  But there are more to being a lesbian than being god at oral sex, and honestly, on a lonely Thursday night when there is nothing on TV, I’d probably be good with that.  Still prefer such things performed by a man.

Even though I am cursed with heterosexuality, I imagine being with a woman would be awesome. Kind of like the best of both the male and female worlds.  Like someone who can build a deck, kill spiders, take out the trash, yet watch Project Runway with me while she ate me out.  Nevermind, too distracting, I cannot miss the runway show.  On the other hand, hearing Heidi Klum screach “you’re out” right at the oportune moment might be interesting.  Hmmm….Heidi Klum…..

Heidi-Klum-Wallpaper-3

Perhaps when I hear “I’m a lesbian trapped in a man’s body” I WANT to hear “I really like to eat pussy.”  It is quite possible that is not what they meant at all.

Once again, perhaps I am giving more credit than they deserve.

Maybe when men say that they are just trying to be clever.  Like saying, “I love bacon so much, if I were a pig, I’d still eat bacon.”  Maybe it is not a testament to their love of women’s bodies, but their disgust of male homosexuality.  If so, that seems mildly homophobic and re-establishes the societal stereotype of tolerance, even encouragement of lesbianism, as long as they like to take a good dickin’ every once awhile and not get to uppity about rights and shit. Where as homosexual men should stay in the closet unless their is some home decorating emergency or to take their wives/girlfriends shopping or to the theatre.  If that is so, fuck you.

lamelines

So, if you say “I am a lesbian trapped in a man’s body” you better mean “I love to eat pussy” otherwise you sound like an asshole.  If the prior is case, here’s my number.

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The Slippery Slope to Bisexuality Part II: My Threesome Fantasy

I have never been in a threesome and for moral and personal
reasons and I think I would like to keep it that way.  I have been
invited.  I mean, I did go to college.  But it always seemed
wrong. Not necessarily morally wrong, but more like “off.”  Either I liked the guy too much to share him or I liked to girl too little or threatened by the woman to let her see me naked.  One memorable RSVP was of a guy who was dating a girlfriend of mine and I decided she had stolen enough men from me by being more “sexually adventurism” than I that I respectfully declined.  Truth be told, I was in my late teens and wanted a “real” boyfriend and I thought she was kind of a slut.  I would not give her the satisfaction of becomeing like her.  Not trying to slut shame, but I was a repressed teenager trying to overcome my fundamentalist upbringing.  She probably had a lot more fun and has fewer regrets.

I think the real reason I have never been in a threesome is that I
am little ADD.  I think I would get distracted trying to please
everybody that I think I would not enjoy it.  I’m a people
pleaser, what can I say?  Of course, these have always been two
girls and a guy. I know I could never do two guys and a girl
scenario.

My threesome fantasies start out something like this.  Sometimes the woman looks like me, rounded and beautiful with long hair of any color that I can run my fingers through.  A woman with whom I can share clothes and secrets.  Sometimes it is a sinewy butch girl who binds her breasts and wears baggy urban style clothes to hide her womanly shape like the young lesbian at my favorite convenience store who looks so much like an adolescent boy it is just short of creepy.  Because she is just a petite and muscular woman in her mid-twenties does my conscious allow her to get buy the bouncer of my subconsious. Whether she is a curvy, beautiful, artistic woman who whispers Emily Dickson and Anais Nin or a butch androgynous woman who slaps me on the ass and calls me “baby” in a husky alto voice, both images will do the job.  But then, the tide turns as the vibrator turns on.

Angelica Huston in drag is the best of both worlds for my money.

Angelica Huston in drag is the best of both worlds for my money.

Men creep in my mind like a storm warning that beeps and scrolls at the bottom of your favorite TV show saying to my brain, “this is what is really imporant.”  Usually these fantasies involve men I know.  I rarely fantasize about celebrities.  They are so unatainable that it is a turn off.  Like Sting is going to break his tour schedule to have tantric sex with me. I fantasize about friends, friends of friends, former or current lovers, men at
work, or complete strangers who caught my eye at the grocery store flipping through magazines while their women, unaware touch and smell fruit for their peak of ripeness. Although I might start with a fantasy about women, whether full and lucious, or ripped and wonderful, the man comes in somehow.  Sometimes he is a voyeur, watching from a safe distance but not participating.  Maybe he just pops and my head like a stunt double taking the real risks where the women are too delicate and precious to do the dirty work of fucking.  Maybe he is like a vintage coffee commercial he is Folgers Crystals who has secretly been replaced the gourmet grounds thinking I would not know the difference.  But I know the difference.

folgers-coffee-crystals

Even though this fantasy is fine to get me off when my lover is away, or I can’t sleep, I’m bored, or it’s random Tuesday evening home alone, even in my fantasies, there is the tinge of wrongness that taints a perfectly wonderful scene like a drop of red in white paint turns every thing pink.  Less innocent, less pure, and just a little bit gay (not like that is a bad thing).  Sure the guy might feel like a stud, but that is a lot of pressure.  It can be a lot of work to please one woman, to please two must be daunting.  And then there is the whole point sex to begin with.  Masturbation has many uses, mostly self-serving and some health related, but the same thing can be said about brushing one’s teeth.  But sex, whether it is making love or straight up fucking, it is about connection.

It is always about connection.

I don’t think I could do the deed justice with another woman in the room.  I would be “performing” for her wondering what she was thinking, what she was feeling, what she thought and felt for me. The man I would undoubtedly lose respect for.  I would see the whole thing as an ego stroke for him.  He not only got one woman to sleep with him, but two, at the same time.  BONUS!  Yeah, I’m not buying it.  Whether it be a man and woman, two men, or two woman, I think it should just be two because love is divisible by one.  That’s all it takes.  Why play the odds?

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The Slippery Slope to Bisexuality Part I: Why I’d Make a Lousy Lesbian

The girl-on-girl fantasy is a common male fantasy, and why should it not be?  Two beautiful women finding pleasure in each other?  HOT!  All that skin, two sets of pretty plump lips finding each other in soft lighting and flattering camera angles?  I think that image in most people’s spank bank whether they be male, female, straight, gay, lesbian, or otherwise.

f gradeI tease that I am a B+ heterosexual, meaning that I am 85% straight, that leaves a good 25% that is bi/lesbian.  But 25% is hardly passing, and that is what I think I would be as lesbian, barely passable.

When I am with a woman, it makes me love men that much more.  It makes me envy them, even pity them.  They get to love a woman but most do not take the time or effort to do it well.  They are attracted to women not just the academic way I am: a well studied subject, familiar and safe, but for men women hold the gift of novelty.  They get to enjoy women because they are programmed to do so.  They get to enter them with their penis, their most sensitive part.  My mouth, my tongue, my fingers, even if I were to don a strap-on (which I wouldn’t) cannot compare to what I imagine what it is like to enter a woman as a man does.  If I were a man, I’d work my whole day, my whole life for that feeling; to make a woman happy and know it was my doing, in and out of bed.

Even if we all have mouths, kissing a woman is very different.  I love kissing a man and feeling his beard rub against my chin, and I love scruff.  Even a freshly shaved man is not as smooth as the softness of a woman’s upper lip and face. There are those of us who are lucky enough to know the difference.  When I kiss a man I love to smell his sweat, his cologne, spicy and fresh, mixing with what, I swear, I can detect a peaking of testosterone when he really gets into it.  When he puts his tongue in my mouth, it lets me know how he’d use his penis, probing and deliberate or sensitive and responsive.

Kissing a woman is very different.  It is like kissing myself.  Lips so soft and tender, wet and luscious as I imagine her pussy would be if it goes that far.  And her smell is that of flowers and fruit of her perfume mixed with the scent of arousal that has to send a man howling at the moon.  If I were a man, I’d love to nuzzle a woman’s neck, nibble her ear, bite her neck until she moans, squeals, or even that sharp, quiet intake of breath lets me know, even in spite of herself, that somewhere deep below something has opened up and softened just for me.

girls-kissing
And breasts? I am mostly straight, and I love breasts.  Who doesn’t?  They are the ultimate accessory.  I hate when too much attention is drawn to them, as if that is necessary, with too low cut a blouse or side boobs.  What is sexy about side boobs?  If I were a man, I’d love them all.  Tiny tits, small and tender like bee stings, large and firm like cantaloupes, even the ones softened by pregnancy, pulled and slacked with a baby’s need for nourishment would be heaven to touch.  I think post pregnancy breasts are kind of sexy because breast feeding an infant is the embodiment of womanhood.  I am sure my breasts will eventually soften but only by gravity.

And that is about as far as I want to go with a woman.  I am a bit overwhelmed when the clothes come off.  Everything then becomes kind of mechanical and even gynological.  Whether they be shaved or natural, I don’t quite know what to do with another woman’s vagina. I know what to do with mine and what I’d like to have done to it, but in the presence of someone else’s, it seems too delicate and secret to invade with fingers and tongues.  I enjoy making a woman come.  That is fascinating, although it is mostly academic for me.  It is like an experiment and I am a novice scientist just mixing things together to see what explodes.  I am very uncomfortable with anything a woman would like to do to me.  No matter how beautiful, how sexy a woman might be, when it comes down to it, I want a man.  A voice in my head that I cannot drown out with all the Ani DiFranco and Indigo Girls songs I want says, “bring on the dick.”

I wish this voice in my head would shut the fuck up. I have had such close connections with women.  I have “fooled around” in my younger years with other girls on sleepovers playing “house.”  Come on, most of us have.  I have had some college experiences, and have had one very interesting “encounter” with another woman as an adult, but it the lesbian habit never took.

Everyone from Dr. Kinsey to Lady Gaga says you are just born that way.  They might be on to something.

I think I could make a woman happy.  I have a decent job.I am a good conversationalist.  I can be a good listener if people we more real not so fucking boring.  Is there anything more insufferable than phoniness?  I would help her pick out clothes.  I would compliment her cooking even if it was terrible.  I would support her dreams.  I would tell her she’s beautiful every day and how my life would never be the same just because I met her.  I have had such closeness on both emotional and spiritual levels with women before, closer than the men I’ve been with who can sketch my clit from memory.  I felt so close to these women in shared ideas, interests, and experience I have sometimes wished that we could take that connection to the next level.  The next level involving less clothes and more body fluids but for some reason, I just cannot go through with it.  I cannot love a woman as she deserves to be loved, the way a straight man truly desires a woman or a true blue lesbian who loves to see herself reflected in another woman’s eyes.  I am not that woman.

I am a woman who loves to feel the scruff of a man’s beard until he rubs my face raw with his wanting.  I need to feel him get hard against my leg when he touches me.  And went I want to come, come hard, when I want to cry out in pleasure and my eyes roll in the back of my head until I can see myself, until I see God, I need a man to take me there.

Perhaps this hunger for a man my gay ex-husband sensed in me.  Because he loved me.  Because he knew me.  Knew me like no other has ever known me then, now, and I hope not ever.  He loved me enough to know he was not that man for me because, perhaps like me, he loves women, are attracted to them, but needed another man to take him there.  I know that ache.  He knows me too.  He loved me enough to let find that.

I’m still looking.

For further research on how there is a growing trend of female bi-sexuality experimentation and orientation, here some soft-core science for you.

Why Are So Many Girls Lesbian or Bisexual? 

Study: Women Get More Bisexual As They Grow Older

 

 

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Top 10 Crazy Reasons I Want to Lose Weight That Have Nothing to do with Health

I have had some crazy reasons to want to lose weight over my lifetime: for a guy, to fit into a dress for a social occasion I didn’t even want to go to, to keep up with my ex-husband’s dramatic weight loss when he transitioned from straight married man to freshly minted gay boy, to be in show choir (yes, show choir), to get to gain some sort of imagined social status, and a host of other ridiculous reasons I wanted to starve myself.  Being that most of them were based on emotional factors, as well as my binge eating habits, the weight loss never lasted. I also think because I thought dieting was a “punishment” for weakness rather than a lifestyle change I was unsuccessful in permanent weight loss, but more on that in future posts.

I wish I had a more valiant reason for watching calories, carbs, and fat grams but I don’t.  I wish I had a mission statement that would explain why I sweat on the treadmill to exhaustion or lift weights until I ache, but I don’t.  These are the Top 10 Reasons I am working on getting fit that have very little to do with health.

1.  Vanity, thy name is woman.  That is the biggest reason I am trying to lose weight.  All of the other reasons are variations on that theme.  If it were just about longevity of life of some generic “quality of life” because some TV quack told you to eat blue berries and flax seeds for breakfast, then Egg McMuffins and Triple Bypasses wouldn’t be so popular, would they?  It is hard to pass up cheesy fries for some number on a BMI scale in your doctor’s office when the ego or your sculpted abs could be stroked instead.

2.  I want to be an inspiration to other women, especially teen girls.  Although it sounds altruistic, I want to prove that a woman can go from “funny fat girl” to “funny healthy weight girl” and not turn into a raving, judgmental bitch.  I have said it before, it takes a lot of courage to walk around in this body.  Sometimes I do not want to have to be so brave.

3.  I really want to know want it would be like to shop in the Misses department. I remember purchasing an XL at “Express” and was immeasurably happy even though my ass was still firmly in women’s sizes since I was a teen.  Those birthing hips have never known Junior sizes.  Darn you, Mother.  Now, I can rock out the latest fashions from Lane Bryant.  I even used to sell the hell out of fat lady clothes when I worked for them.  Working for Lane Bryant is a right of passage for many a woman of size.  At the time I was about a size 16 or 18 and my height helped carry the extra pounds so I was the skinniest girl in the room.  It really depends on the room.  When I am at a reasonable weight, not skinny, but at a curvy size 16 or 18 I am rather comfortable in my own skin.  My heaviest is a 24.  Right now I can still wear a 18/20 dress but wear a size 22 in pants, but my 22′s gap in the waist no matter what.  My weight is carried most in my lower body and my upper body stays about the same. So when I am thinner, I look like an hour glass, when I am heavier, I look sort of like McDonald’s Grimace.

This is what my body looked like when I was a size 16 when I worked for Lane Bryant. No, really.

This is what my body looked like when I was a size 16 when I worked for Lane Bryant. No, really.

This is what I feel like I look like at my heaviest.

This is what I feel like my body looks at my heaviest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4. I am curious to know what kind of muscles and form I have under all this fat.  I bet I’m hot.

5.  I would like to be less inhibited in bed.  I love sex, but my body issues get in the way of my full enjoyment of the act no matter how comfortable the man makes me feel or how much I am in love, it is hard for me to really let go when I am wondering if he is looking at my cellulite.

6.  Working out gives me an excuse to 90′s hip hop and cheesy pop dance songs.  Nothing gets my blood pumping like “Momma Said Knock You Out” by LL Cool J.  That man can make my heart stop in more than one way.

Now that is some motivation.

Now that is some motivation.

7.  To turn heads and rub my new body in the face (figuratively, not literally) of the bullies from middle school in high school.  Of course, I was pretty hot at my high school reunion.  Sure I can still wear my prom dress from 1993 (a size 18) only I have a woman’s curves and confidence to pull it off.  So maybe that might not be that necessary.

8.  I won’t be the “wing man” for more attractive girls.  I hate that. This is not my woman friends’ faults.  They don’t see me as the funny fat girl that makes them seem more attractive.  They are not that shallow, but men at bars are.  And I know when the “wing man” chatting me up to help his buddy get laid.  Yup, that’s me.  I’ve been helping other people get laid since 1994.  Screw that noise.

9.  I don’t want to be a stereotype.  I don’t want to be the sweet overweight girl that fell in love with the gay boy and turned into his “beard.”  I also don’t want to be the ambitious hard working fat girl that only attracts loser guys so they can mooch off her.  I also don’t want to have the kind of body a “brother could love” so if I choose to be with a black man, which I might, people won’t assume because I am too fat for a white guy to want me or even to reach me with their only average sized penises.  That is all false.  Vicious, vicious lies that break my heart and my spirit, but I hear it all the time.  If I were thin, other people would believe a guy is with me because he loves me because I am smart and beautiful, not because there is something “wrong” with him and couldn’t do better.  If I were thin, maybe I’d believe it myself.

10.  (And this is the stupidest reason of all.)  I want to do Burlesque.  Burlesque is a growing underground trend in larger cities.  I know some friends in a troupe in my home city and they have all kinds of girls in all shapes in sizes, but I think I’d have to lose some weight before I’d go out on stage period let alone to dress down to only pasties and a G-string.  I am a bit of an exhibitionist.  Maybe it is because I wear this very public secret shame of weight that I want to dare people to want me.  I am sexy even though I do not fall into the standard deviations of Caucasian beauty, but men want to fuck me anyway.  Maybe in private where there friends don’t have to see them with me at breakfast the next morning, but they want to fuck me anyway.  Maybe not all, but some.  Really, I just need one.

This is my goal weight, complete with whip.  All that time mastering the Stairmaster and i will have earned one.

This is my goal weight, complete with whip. All that time mastering the Stairmaster and I will have earned one.

 

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The Thin Myth: The Early Years

The Thin Myth is the idea I dreamed up that if only I were thinner, than the world would be my oyster, as long as I chose grilled fish instead.  The “thin myth” started very young.  As I stated before, I was not a huge child, just a little chubiniski.  My weight was such a point of contention and anxiety in my household.  In the late seventies and early eighties, it was difficult to get “plus-sized” kids clothes.  They did have “huskies” for boys at places like JC Penny or Sears, but nothing for girls.  I guess we were not supposed to exist.  I would have gladly worn boy’s jeans if it meant my mother would stop sighing whenever we went shopping.  My mother and grandmother would make me clothes and I remember feeling so guilty that I would make so much work for them because I was not like other girls.  I remember standing on a chair in my grandmother’s living room while my brother was outside playing so she can hem my dress.  I remember her winkled face crinkling even more as her mouth frowned and her brow furrowed and her saying, well, I guess I have to let out the seams, again.  I remember standing in my t-shirt and panties feeling as vulnerable as ever with hot tears welling in my eyes willing them not to fall.  I remember putting on my shorts and a tee-shirt (probably with either a kitten or a unicorn on it) and riding my bike around the block over and over by myself to exhaustion.  I rode until my tears were replaced with sweat trying to somehow put as much distance between myself and the humiliation only to loop back again to the scene of the crime.  Later at dinner, when I finally had to go inside, I only consumed the number of forkfuls as I had years on earth, seven.  To my memory, this was my first crash diet.

The object of my torment.

The object of my torment.

My weight kept me back from so many activities in my life.  It was not even that my weight prevented me from doing anything physical.  What it really came down to was embarrassment.  I played basketball in fourth grade a bit, but because I was too afraid to ask my parents for new sweatpants, I quit.  I actually kind of liked the game.  I did do Girl Scouts.  Even though I did not take it very seriously nor did it “cure” my social awkwardness, the Girl Scouts it did help me be a bit more social and teach me some about nature, service to others, and how to sell some cookies.  Yeah, let’s take chubby girl struggling with her weight in an ill-fitting green skirt and have her sell cookies.

The Thin Myth continued throughout my childhood and teen years.  Even thinking about it now, how many clubs I did not join, how many activities I did not do, and how many heartbreaks I endured because of the iron clad belief that I was not good enough the way I was and if I only got my weight under control, everything would be okay.  I remember in eighth grade I did not go out for student council because I was afraid people would make fun of me.  As if being on student council in middle school is not humiliating enough.

As I have described so far is how I discriminated against myself.  I have told you how my shame and fear of anticipatory social anguish kept me back all those years.  I could tell you some sad stories about how other students, family members, even teachers would tease, berate, and bar me from activities because of my size.  Once again, even if I look at pictures an when I am very honest with myself, I was NOT obese, just not thin.  I am not going to tell those stories because to start with, they paint me in a very negative light.  Second, they are just too painful to bring to mind let alone write on “paper.”  Giving them any more oxygen to those memories just give them that much more power.  Those painful weight-related memories loom in mind like a scary black blob eating up all my happiness.  In my adult years, with a lot of therapy and self-help books, the monster is somewhat contained, caged in my memory like the boogie man, but that doesn’t mean you still leave the closet door open just in case he escapes.

boogie man

The problem with the Thin Myth is that it is, unfortunately, true.  Overweight people face bias in the workplace, in society, in dating, and overweight kids face bias even from their own parents.  See the attached articles if you don’t believe me.  And if you don’t believe me, look at yourself.  Have you run across a fat kid and wonder, even in well-intentioned kindness, “What is wrong with that kid?” or “Why aren’t the parents doing anything?”  Or do you watch an obese person at a buffet and watch what they are eating and make sure you don’t choose the same thing in the mortal fear that you too will “catch the fat”?

I have forgiven the little girl I once was.  I see what was under my control and what was not.  As an adult, I am trying to make better health choices, although vanity is still a factor in my “reinvention.”  I would like to get to a healthy weight so I can live a fuller, more active lifestyle. I would also like to be in a place where people look at me and not my weight.  I would like to be in a place where people do not make judgments on my character based on my weight.  But in the meantime, I am not going to sit on the sidelines of life waiting for the magic number on the scale to tell me now is the time to enjoy life.  Right now I have to put on stiff upper lip even if I have wobbly upper thighs and face the world in the body I have now.  You have no idea what kind of courage it takes to walk around in a big body unless you have lived in one.

For more information on weight bias and the affects on the child, please see below:

http://life.familyeducation.com/obesity/social-isolation/61370.html

http://www.canada.com/health/Bias+against+obese+people+increasing+study+says/1609133/story.html

 

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