My body shape has changed. My upper thighs hurt so bad sometimes. I’m not used to feeling anything other than blubber / fat – so when my legs hurt bad and I rub them, I feel frightened because they feel leaner. Particularly my upper thighs.
I sometimes think to myself “this must be what it feels like for thin people”.
Sometimes I get quite scared again – when I feel my body changing like it has been. I end up creating more physical pain through literally shattering my nervous system – psychologically fragmenting myself and my body as a measure to cope.
Emotional vulnerability & authentic humility I do very well. Physical vulnerability, I do not feel safe thin. Or thinner. I have lost battle after battle attempting to get under 150kg over a now 5-6 year period. Some people say I sabotage my progress. I say “weight loss isn’t my goal”. Pulling and pushing myself through the debilitating fear(s) I have surrounding being thinner is what I hit up against time after time after time.
The disorientation I experience – where my adult base line can blur & sometimes merge with my child like line(s) makes for a bleak daily grind I tell ya. I often hear what many would call an “inner child” crying, wimpering, screaming and / or silent – numb from the experience of excruciating & paralysing physical pain. Things happened to me in my first year of life – that I cannot put into words. But when I hear myself – when I give myself permission to simply open my mouth and allow the fuck awful howl of the wounded self escape – to be heard by me – I feel a depth that goes well beyond that of our current human existence. Everything just hollows out and I feel myself – not falling, kind of like being drawn down deep into the womb of Papatuaanuku (earth mother) again – suckling at her breast – feeling the nourishment from her womb transferring across to my entire body via a series of umbilical cords that I’m connected to over parts of my body. And in the bigger scheme of things I am the size of a dot. Like the analogy of a grain of sand upon a beach. I am minute by comparison to Papa.
Yet all these scary ugly things pass over the top of her – and I can sometimes see them – yet still I lay – upon her breast, her chest – her earthiness I can taste on the sides of my tongue at the far back & deep in my throat. I can smell the roots of her fibre. And I feel a fiery peacefulness – a sense of protection perhaps, it is something I have never had yet mourn for continuously through an ocean of fat that equates to feeling so empty. And longing to be nurtured. Longing to feel the safe arms – the strength in a parents arms – that won’t leave bruises or cause blood to spill.
So tell me again, how I sabotage my “progress”. Look me in the eye and tell me how much you “understand” – or even “know where I’m coming from”. Belittle my experiences through your unwillingness to dig deep. Unproductively criticise me through your inability to self-manage emotion. Speak to me in lies because I already know who you are.
To know me is to love me. To love me, is to know who you are. To know who you are, you’ve got to feel deeply and be unafraid and unashamed and unwilling to allow others to dictate your experiences for their comfort. To know who you are – you must understand that your reo – your voice, is also a sacred energy that deserves to be heard. That needs to be heard. That wants to be heard.