I have a shy bladder, or paruresis – the fear of urinating in front of others. In other words I can’t pee, no matter how bad I have to, thinking or knowing someone can hear me. It’s pretty much the stupidest fear in the world but I’ve SUFFERED from this since I can remember. I fear drinking out with my girlfriends. I fear that “Let’s go to the bathroom” scene only to find one toilet and everyone begins taking turns. In the past I’ve held it or pushed people out. Sometimes I can actually pee.
I went on birth control when I was 15. I had irregular periods. It could now be attributed to my hypothyroidism or the fact I was active (hard to believe I once was, I know) but my boobs went from a nearly A to a B cup in the matter of months. I got unsightly stretchmarks on my breasts from the growth. I remember confessing this to my then boyfriend (the high school, first love kind) and him saying to me, “They’ll go away, won’t they? The girls in Playboy don’t have them.” I was devastated. I thought I was supposed to look like a Playboy model.
I went on the pill and gained 10 pounds. My mother began telling me “When I was your age I weighed…” stories. She told me once, “If you’re going to have a weight problem, it’s going to be in your legs.” And the “I was remember having a little fat there once.” Not what you want to hear as an impressionable teen. I’m also not even close to being built like my mother but more like my father and his once stout frame.
I haven’t sang in front of many people since 2nd grade when I was teased for doing so in front of my music class. I’ve been told by some close people I sing in front of I can carry a tune. I still to this day have never sang karaoke in public for fear of people’s responses.
I’m never going to be supermodel thin. I’m never going to be supermodel perfect. I’m never going to sing great. I’m never going to have voluminous hair. I’m not going to have baby blue eyes. I’ve changed jobs a lot in the last year. I’ve also gone through a lot.
I want to work out to keep my heart healthy. I don’t want to work out to be a size 6. I look at my aunt California living at 51 with visible abs and her ability to run miles around people my own age and I get down.
I complain about being fat and gaining 5 pounds since I’ve been unemployed and my boyfriend tells me, “If it’s anything, I like the way you look.”
I’m not drinking because a few people think I need to prove it to myself I’m not an alcoholic and I don’t rely on alcohol. Ok, so I have been. I see that. I won’t anymore.
I’m not rich. I’m not going to be. My retirement savings suck. I impulsively spend to make myself happy and just genuinely enjoy decorating.
I’m not thin. I’m genetically not made to be thin. I enjoy chocolate and a whole hell of a lot of it. I LOVE pizza! I love steak. But I love carrots, apples, strawberries. I love cooking. I love baking. So what if it makes me fat.
I cut my hair into a pixie cut on occasion and I still remember getting called a lesbian by people and my own brother when I did in high school.
Don’t get me started on my nose.
I’m just saying as I sit here tonight and look at my boys, that I want them to love themselves, but I don’t even love myself. I’m capable of doing so, I’m just going to have to drop what other people want for me.
I’m crying as I type this. I was anorexic when I was in high school. I took laxatives when I felt fat, that ended up being pretty much weekly, than twice a week, three times, etc. I was losing weight and people were noticing. Guys were noticing. I fit into a size 2 Abercrombie pant at one time. I find myself going down that same path here lately. I don’t want to.
I don’t want to not drink on a beautiful Friday evening as I grill out after a long day of work and my kids play in the yard. I’m not driving.
I don’t want to try to look good in a bikini for someone I don’t even see every year. Someone that I’m not having sex with. Who will see me in a bikini? And yes I’ll wear one because I was told I don’t look bad in one. I want to be able to continue to wear one and not care. I want sun! I want a tan on this freckled pale-ass body.
I may die young, I’m not going to let myself become diabetic or a raging alcoholic. I’m not going to beat my children or pass out like my father did. I’m not going to tell my kids they’re too fat or too skinny. I want them to love themselves. I wouldn’t want anyone talking to them like people have talked to me or even how I talk to myself.
I’m done. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of sucking in my stomach. I’m tired of not drinking. I’m tired of not being happy. And really, I’m tired of not smiling and showing my teeth because they’re not “tissue white”. I don’t want them to be. I think tissue white teeth look very unnatural. Call me old-fashioned.
Do you know how many compliments I’ve gotten over my lifetime on my tits and ass? Not ONE person has complained about the stretchmarks (which now cover other areas thanks to pregnancies) and the dimples on my ass. My kids have never told me my lullabies suck ass. My aunt’s never carried a child. She’s never lived in the South and probably doesn’t find fried okra on every menu and have to order it.
I am who I am. I want to be who I want to be. It’s true life is hard enough without all of this. It seems too simple to just let all of this go but it’s not. But, Lord, let it be easy for me for once.