I’ve needed my walking stick for quite a long time. Maybe 7 or 8 years and I’ve only just become properly comfortable with it. Using a mobility aid, especially earlier in life, is very strange. Everyone has an opinion. No one is shy about sharing it.
All the questions and reactions definitely had an impact on me. I feel self conscious more often than one might expect. I hate when strangers want my medical history. Staring makes me feel shit or angry; sometimes both. I am so fed up with being told I’m so young for a walking stick. I find it really difficult to need accommodations. I feel like a real pain in the arse more often than anyone else is bothered. Likewise, I’m sure I sense judgement more than it actually exists. All of which messes with the confidence.
Then of course there is a sense of loss. Accepting all the things you can no longer do is hard. I struggled on without a stick for longer than I should have because I had this ridiculous idea that I was giving in. I’ve always felt a certain amount of pressure to be stoic in the face of my health issues. A walking stick felt like capitulation. It also forced me across the line in my head of admitting that I was permanently disabled. Before that I was hanging on to the idea that my knee could get better. That was silly considering I’d been assured by more than one Dr that it absolutely would not. Degenerative conditions aren’t known for improvement.
All told, it’s been trickier than I’ve let on. I’ve finally found peace. How do I know? I have personalised my stick. The idea of making it in any way decorative used to make me feel queasy. I have concluded that my subconscious attached styling the stick with it being part of my identity. The way I dress has always reflected my personality. Until very recently including my walking stick in that was a frightening prospect.
Klimt Style
I’m over the line again. If I’m taking the bloody thing every where it might as well be a bit funky. Keep your eyes peeled for new incarnations. Knowing me, I’ll be mixing up it.
Moo Style
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On one of my recent insomnia fuelled drives for distraction I stumbled upon an interview that persists in my thoughts. It was Anderson Cooper discussing grief & loss with Stephen Colbert. Both had significant losses early in life. Anderson talked of wishing he had been physically marked by the experience. This is of course a reality I am familiar with. Which led to some slightly self indulgent word therapy.
He talked about how he felt it might be easier to have a permanent sign of the damage so that others may be aware of his condition. An idea I suspect he’d soon realise the error of if he actually did bear a mark of loss. He continued that he thought people should know that he wasn’t necessarily the person he should be. Tragic events had diverted him from the person he started life as. This concept felt lifted from my very own brain. Of course much thinking ensued.
When Anderson talked of being marked he suggested a scar running down his face. His reasoning being that in the wake of his mother’s recent death people had offered condolences, but also shared their experiences of loss. He found this sharing to be comforting and it’s not a thing that generally happens. The scar would show his pain & people would feel able to have those conversations. Colbert agreed in part as he recognised the feeling of his loss being a continual part of his life, whilst the world at large rarely considers it. All sentiments I relate to. I do often struggle with just how often I think of my babies when they’re rarely acknowledged by anyone else. That led me to ask myself questions I had thought settled.
I understand their reasoning, my experience just doesn’t bear it out. The look of my self harm was never a factor I gave much thought. Outside of the need to hide it from others, the visual of impact was a non issue. I never cared. Ugly scars were just a by product of a necessary thing. The pain & blood & release & expiation were essential. If mutilation was a consequence of that so be it. I don’t think it occurred to me that I had another option. Yet, now, clothed in the aftermath it does seem fitting.
If I could exclude third party reaction it would make sense. I can see a twisted symmetry in my flesh being ravaged, but still living. At my core that’s how I feel. I contributed to my destruction and then I toiled to repair the ruin. Of course, you can’t escape the opinions of others. Those who care about you are hurt by the reminder of your pain. Those who don’t know you are as often cruel as kind. Carrying your story everywhere is a complicated matter. Anderson might end up preferring the anonymity of a metaphorical scar.
The second part is harder to reason. For a very long time I wanted nothing more than to be the person I was before. It took me years to accept that wasn’t possible & several more to realise that wasn’t my fault. I still missed that fun, capable, handle it all girl. Still wondered what she may have become, but I didn’t hate the me that life had created anymore. Little by little I learned to like myself. I started to believe that might be able to take all the broken pieces & make something beautiful.
The universe had other ideas. It really does enjoy smashing me up. Each time I lost a bit making a whole seemed less & less likely. Now that I know for sure how unlikely, those other mes feel important again. I keep thinking about who I could have been. Which variation of myself was I supposed to be?
I can’t help but imagine that original version of myself would have made a shinier, happier life. That 19yr old was a powerful force. She’d have been unstoppable at forty. Even if I’d sustained the original hit there all there a still multiple variants. All these possible lys that could have existed if you subtract chips along the way. Sure, that could probably be said for anyone; I just don’t know if everyone can so clearly identify the points of impact. It makes it easier to compare the before & after.
I had made peace with the person I am. I don’t reject her now. The what if’s have simply grown louder. There could have been so much more. In the end I don’t care about the scars. I’d even take Cooper’s imagined facial disfigurement if it gave me a chance at one of those parallel lives. The older I get, the more certain I become; I want the more.
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Autumn has always been my favourite season. The drawing in of the nights & cooling of the air used to be welcome. These days this time of year is more complicated.
All of my babies were due in August or September. As the weather changes I am beset with anniversaries and reminders. People who were pregnant with me throw birthday parties. I quietly mark dates I had hoped to celebrate.
This year my orbit is congested with pregnancy announcements creating a perfect storm of emotion. All are depressingly familiar. I’m sad and lost. I don’t know how to find a purpose big enough to fill up my life. Each time I begin to believe I’m approaching acceptance I’m overtaken with this stale grief.
It’s so heavy and I’m so tired of dragging it around. I want to be able to move past this, but there are too many ghosts. A million tiny pricks. Triggers lurk everywhere; always something to yearn for. Even in my happiest moments I’m aware of what’s missing.
I can’t comprehend ever making this ok. Yet, I don’t wan’t to be this tragic old bitch. I’d like to stick all my consolation prizes together & collage myself a happy enough ending. I’m scared I’m not sufficiently good/strong/grateful to make do & mend.
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I still write baby even though you’d be almost grown now. You’d be pretty much a man, which is very scary. I bet you’d be amazing, though. I picture you as tall & sensitive & just a tiny bit reckless. I know we’d have butted heads, but I’d love your fire.
I’m feeling pretty raw this year. You have another sibling who didn’t make it to life. I have another reason to cry. I have reasons to smile too. I’m doing ok.
I’d be better if I was buying cake & wrapping presents, but life had other plans for us. I had to learn to be strong & you were destined for somewhere more beautiful than this world.
I’m ready now. Love, loss, life, I can take it all in my stride. I am ready to to mother a child I can hold in my arms as well as my heart. I have wonderful new little people to cherish, I have hope & I will always carry you with me. That’s enough for now.
Wow, it’s hot. This little heatwave we’ve been having is just what I needed. Sunshine puts a little spring in everyone’s step & it’s certainly lifted my mood. Part of the fun of summer is shedding some clothes & indulging in some flirty fashion. In years gone by I’ve missed this pleasure due to ALL the things I felt I had to hide. So, once again I want to celebrate the beautiful freedom the body positive community has brought to my life.
For so many years I believed that my body was ugly. I had completely internalised the fat phobia that society is drenched in. I felt ashamed of my scars & my flab & my uber pale skin & often unshaven parts. I’ve always had a healthy disregard for other people’s judgements, but aspects of my physicality were weak spots. I did what many women do; hid the shameful bits. I protected myself with loose fitting clothing, long sleeves & maxi hemlines. Additionally I built a wall of false, self depreciating confidence. I was always the first person to make a fat joke at my expense because it hurt so much less if I got in there first.
I often doubted why romantic partners would want me. I felt huge & unattractive when socialising with slimmer friends. Shopping was a battleground of anxieties. So many special occasions were ruined because I never felt comfortable or even worthy. I missed events because I couldn’t find anything cool to wear that covered all the things I was scared to show. Countless opportunities to capture significant moments were lost because I hated how fat I looked in photographs. Most of all, I felt trapped. I was caged by the standards society told me I had meet.
Then came bopo. This idea that I was enough swept into my life & blew away a lifetime of bullshit. Immersing myself in a community who told me I was enough changed me. Actually seeing other fat bodies portrayed in a positive light was magnificent. I realised that when I looked at these women wearing amazing clothes, doing exciting things & generally rocking their lives, I saw beauty.
From there is has been a gradual acceptance of myself. A growing appreciation of how my body looks. These last few days of scorching heat have made me realise that I might have reached peak self love. Not once have I worried about flashing my flesh. In fact, I have loved selecting outfits & enjoyed wearing them even more. Stares don’t phase me because I feel fantastic. I am sexy & cool & deserving of respect. Anyone who feels differently can kiss my fat arse.
I find myself truly taking pleasure in my body. Be it snapping pics because my butt looks cute, being unabashedly naked with my boyfriend or feeling the fresh breeze on my scarred arms; I feel free. And it is joyous.
On my way to Dublin last week something happened that not so long ago would have been a massive issue for me. The fact that it didn’t really phase me proved to me how far I’ve come.
The incident was an airplane seat belt that didn’t fit. This is something that I actually used to fear. A while back every time I boarded a plane I braced myself for the humiliation of being too fat to fit. It turned out to be no big deal. I had a brief moment of panic, my thoughts raced through all the seat belts that had fitted & how big I was then. Then it dawned on me that I didn’t care. It didn’t matter if I was bigger or this particular seat belt was smaller. It just didn’t fit & there was an easy rememdy for that. I asked for an extender & stopped thinking about.
Until yesterday when it dawned on me what that meant. I wasn’t embarassed to ask for the extender meaning I wasn’t ashamed to acknowledge my fat body. That is incredible. Being a part of the body positivity community has led me to a place where I can genuinely appreciate my body. Once I realised that I started thinking about all the little things that marked real progress.
It recently occurred to me that I had gained some weight on my bum. The marvellous part was I liked it. I’ve found myself dressing to show off my bigger arse & I am so chuffed about that.
Then on Saturday as I was dressing I automatically tucked my top into my skirt. Not a very momentous act except that I spent years of my life ensuring that my top always covered my stomach. I was that person tugging at my clothes to ensure I was hiding flabby bits. Now I just wear what I feel nice in & here’s the kicker, I look better tucked in or in clingy vests.
Along the same lines whilst out with my sister I asked her to take blog photos. I am usually a pain the arse about pictures. Never happy with who I look, probably because I wasn’t happy with my body. In the past I have ducked out of pictures at big events & special moments, which I’ve come to regret. So, in recent times I have made a conscious effort to push through my discomfort & mark significant times. I was however still dissatisfied with my appearance in the photographs. This weekend was different. My sister snapped pics of me in various poses & I loved them all. Break through!
The last and probably most obvious symbol of acceptance of myself is how comfortable I am naked. I run about my house in the buff all the time. I look at myself in a full length mirror whilst I dry my hair and I do not feel critical. I have no desire to hide. I notice the parts of my body that look amazing rather than hating my stomach or chubby arms. This carries through to being naked with others. I no longer feel worried about comparisons when changing with female friends. In the same vein I confidently show my body to anyone I get jiggy with.
This may strike a lot of people as unremarkable, but it’s a life changing shift. Immersing myself in the body positive has helped me alter how I think & feel about my body. I’ve gone from yo yo dieting, disordered eating & choosing clothes to specfically hide ‘problem’ areas to being a woman who no longer believes there are any bad body parts. I like me. I like my curves, my wobbly bits & everything else. Body positivity works. Women supporting & encouraging each other moves mountains. So, I owe a big thank you to all of you who read, comment & create fat friendly content. High five, ladies, we’re changing the world.
Part of my body positivity journey ( how cringey does that sound? ) has been reclaiming the word fat. Fat is not an insult. It’s merely a descriptor. I am fat. I am also fucking amazing. Once I realised that, fat lost all its power to hurt me. In recognition of this I created this little beauty.
It’s from a Primark range called style your own. The chain comes with the 26 letters of the alphabet & you make your own message. I had to buy two in order to get all the letters I needed, but at £2.99 that wasn’t really an issue.
Radical, funky & pretty much unique jewellery for under a tenner, result.
Something in the way she moves... 
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