It's Kind of a Long Story... about SUPPORT (Part II)

You lift me up

Oct 09, 2024

Hey Drama Goblins,

I passed a milestone last week: The 1st anniversary of It’s Kind of a Long Story…

Substack sent me this super ugly graphic that I chose not to share

I’m really proud of myself for publishing *something* every week for the last 52 weeks. I haven’t been very good at goals in the last couple of years, so maintaining this one means a lot to me.

And… as I have eluded to in the last couple of ‘stacks, my time/life/needs have shifted in the last year. I still enjoy and get a lot out of writing, but I don’t “need it to survive” the way I did last year.

I also have become less hurt that there are close friends and family who don’t read what I write. I can’t deny I don’t feel nothing about that, but I am much OK-er with it than when I started.

I’ve decided to suspend paid subscriptions for now. Although I know that no one is subscribing because they expect to get their money’s worth, it doesn’t feel right to take money when the quality of what I write is all over the place, and the quantity may be shifting from weekly as well.

But, if you are so moved, you can always Buy Me a Coffee.

I’m so glad you’re here,

Lara

Short Story

I was feelin’ some kinda way when I thought my pals ditched me at the bra shop. Then, right when needed it, I was supported by my girls.

Long Story

It was just a misunderstanding, but my lizard brain was still feeling panicked and my nervous system was pumping out cortisol when my friends didn’t show up for our bra shopping date.

I felt left out. Ditched. Dismissed. Disposable. Unwanted. Unworthy. Those are old, deep feelings that I have worked hard to manage, but they lie beneath the surface poised to rise up when I’m triggered.

I’ve learned to recognize them for what they are, which is half the battle and keeps me from spiraling or acting out, but I’m only human, and not strong enough to keep them entirely contained.

So when I looked down at my phone and saw a text from my friend Denise with a photo of a rack of clothes and the words “All size L or XL. We all want to see you!” I was enveloped in a wave of comfort and… shame.

One of the reasons I was looking forward to bra shopping was that it was a good excuse to not go to Denise’s clothing exchange.

Around 10 years ago, I made the decision to lose weight and successfully lost 150lbs and kept it off for many years. I did it on my own and was very proud of that.

Well you know what happens to pride, it goeth before a fall.

I have fallen.

I’m about 45-50lbs over my goal weight (getting on the scale is not good for my much better but still shaky mental health) The weight at which I was most comfortable and felt the most attractive and sexy and normal.

It feels like failure.

I thought I had beaten the odds. I thought I had figured it out. People used to tell me how great I looked and asked me for advice and admired me.

That felt good.

It felt good that my weight was off the table. That it wasn’t the first thing people noticed or last thing they remembered about me. That I didn’t have to wonder if they saw me as lazy, indulgent, undisciplined, or stupid.

It had been so liberating to move through life without that weight.

It also felt really good to be able to walk into any store or any situation and find clothes that fit. The world felt open and welcoming. I got the message that I belonged everywhere I went. Boutiques, department stores, yard sales, thrift shops all had something for me. It was fun and easy to treat myself with a $5 top or $10 jacket. Every piece of clothing I owned was a trophy. I had earned them.

Now? I avoid shopping as much as I can. There’s very little out there for me. I don’t like the way things fit. I can’t scoop up bargains. Doors are closed. My presence is tolerated rather than welcomed, and relegated to the outskirts.

I know I’ve had a lot of stress and a lot of upheaval in the past couple of years, but anyone who lives in our culture knows that it’s unacceptable to respond to stress by gaining weight.

It’s the worst thing a woman can do. Fat is the worst thing a woman can be. I joked with my therapist about “binging without having the decency to purge.” I respect her for not denying it. She lives in this world too.

Losing weight and keeping it off was part of my story. It was an essential quality of my personal brand. It’s one of the few things I’ve accomplished in my life.

And now… that was all gone. I’d let my culture, my community and myself down. I told myself that when I moved back into the house I could resume the habits that served me better, my stress would be reduced and the weight would come off.

It hasn't.

So when Denise invited me to her clothing swap party, I did a rare thing and declined. I’m usually a “say yes” kinda gal. I love to get together for almost any reason.

But this time, I was both too big and not big enough to go to a party where I’d be the fattest girl in the room, there would be no clothes for me to swap, and I’d be flooded with memories of the not-too-distant past when I would have swept in like I owned the place and left with armfuls of treasures.

I literally stood there on the street and looked down at my phone, my mind reeling with a million conflicting thoughts:

They want to see me. I am so lucky to be wanted, especially by such cool, awesome, accomplished women.
L and XL. This is what it’s come to.
Oh Lara, you made such big deal out of posting *why* you weren’t coming in the Facebook group because you wanted to be honest and vulnerable and transparent and now you’re going to backtrack and slink back in there like a fool?

I’m not entirely sure what propelled me to go to the swap. I think it was in large part because I was all up in my feelings and it was still early in the evening and the thought of being alone with them was worse than feeling embarrassed in front of my friends and the potential humiliation of not finding any clothes that fit.

I stood on Denise’s front porch looked down at her mat that reads, “Yay! You’re here!” closed my eyes, took a breath and rang the bell. She greeted me with her huge trademark smile and opened the door wide.

All over the room women I know and like and love turned to me and smiled and clapped and whooped and made me feel so welcome and wanted.

I remember once that the sign of a good parent is how they react when their child walks into the room. That’s what makes kids feel safe and loved and seen and appreciated. Not gifts. Not words. The natural, unplanned, unrehearsed and impossible-to-fake responses in the most mundane circumstances.

In that room, looking at those faces, the shame started to give way to gratitude. How lucky and I enter a room and be welcomed so warmly and genuinely. What a gift to be glad to be seen.

I started telling people about the Bra Shop Incident and showed off my new bra and after chit-chatting a bit, I made my way to the L and XL rack. And do you know what? I found a bunch of cute stuff. I piled it on my arm with the vague idea of what might fit. My body is so unrecognizable to me that it’s hard to judge what will work. I used to be a fit whizz and could quickly and easily ID what would work for me. My body used to be unrecognizable because it was so thin. I say, “I can’t believe that’s me” to my image in the mirror with a very different tone and implication 8 years ago than I do now.

When Denise saw me with the pile of clothes, she kindly asked if I wanted to change in her room. I knew that hours earlier, the gals had been running around half-dressed trying things on. She knew I needed my privacy.

I took another deep breath as I started to try things on. Much to my surprise and delight, a lot of them fit.

I was so happy not only to have new clothes, but to have a pile of swapped treasure just like everyone else. I wasn’t on the outskirts.

After most of the guests had left, Denise and I and few other friends ended the evening on her roof deck. In that smaller group, talk got real and we were able to share and support each other through some major life stuff.

I felt honored to be trusted with the hard truths these women were bearing. To ease their burden and hold space without judgement. One of them was going through some man trouble and I said, “I say this and I mean it, you can not talk about this too much to me. There is no such thing as too much. I will always listen and I will always listen for as long as you need to talk.” It was gift I wish I had been explicitly given when I was going through the Cris shizz.

One of the women revealed she had gotten a boob job years earlier, at the encouragement (and with the financial assistance) of an ex boyfriend. It was secret she had been keeping for years and often source of shame. It wasn’t the boob job per se that made her ashamed, but the relationship that inspired it and the belief she held at the time that her body and appeal to men was her most valuable commodity. That larger breasts she bought, rather than what she accomplished with her mind and effort, is what gave her confidence and purpose.

But tonight, within that circle, she felt safe enough to throw up her shirt and show us what a good job it was. She embraced her breasts as her own and owned them. And owned the woman who chose to get them. And the woman she had become who would now make a different choice.

It was a twist An evening that started with me being abandoned in a bra shop and buying an expensive bra to both console and celebrate myself, ended with me supporting my friend and her boobs. An evening in which my deepest and most destructive beliefs about my fat body were mirrored in my friend’s about her breasts.

We supported each other

If you know someone who would get something out of that story, please share!

Listen!

80s Deep Cut of the Week! I listened to this album recently and it super holds up. Funny story: The lead singer was named Dr. Robert. My friend Jennifer and I used to make emergency break-in calls using the names of pop-stars. Do you remember those? If the line was busy, you could call the operator and she’d break in and tell your friend that “Simon LeBon was calling” One time I made an emergency call and used the name “Dr. Robert” and instead of Jen coming on the line I got her dad giving me an earful (I’d earned) about never making an emergency call and saying a Doctor was calling.

Read!

Daughters of Eve is 2nd wave feminist-ish YA about a man-hating teacher who encourages her female students to avenge their sisters who are mistreated by brothers, fathers and boyfriends. I read it at an impressionable age, and it made a big impression on me.

I know it’s not a popular opinion, but I’m pro-revenge. I’m all for taking matters into your hands that would otherwise go unajudicated. In this book, that’s just what they do and in a refreshing twist, the results are not entirely disastrous.

And… I also remember the fat girl was described as a “160 pound blob.” It made me terrified of that number on a scale. I remember being so proud and relieved when the needle dipped below that number. Now? I’d be thrilled to be that blob.

Follow!

@ PieLadyBooks makes pies inspired by books. Isn’t that wonderful?

Before I let you go…

I had the honor to see Hilary Clinton the other night. One of the things that stuck with me is that she is terrified of the current Supreme Court. HRC, who ain’t afraid of much, is very afraid of what Alito and Thomas and their enablers are capable of.

Please VOTE, and do what you can to encourage others to vote as well.