Musings of an Unapologetic, Fat, Feminist on a Journey of a Lifetime!
Author: Life of Riley
Erin Riley is a classically trained, multi-hyphenate Theatre Artist based in the DMV with more than 50 productions under her belt. She is the Associate Artistic Director of Strand Theater Company and has worked extensively in the Baltimore area as a director, actor, playwright, and designer. She is also a Fat Positivity Advocate, a Cat Mom, and fabulous home cook and baker whose Celtic and Eastern European roots naturally inspire her to feed peoples' bodies AND minds.
Mother of She-Wolves, Lover of Mike and Ikes, and the Baltimore Orioles most fervent fan!
She/Her/Hers
Goals for this week: Wake up before 9am (this is a real issue for me because I don’t sleep well.) Stay consistent with getting my steps in. Keep working on decluttering the condo. Put Isabelle and Burnley’s cat tree together. Make a good faith attempt to eat all three meals in a day.
There were a few things that happened this past week that I’m really very proud of – exercises in mindfulness that have made a big difference in the way that I feel. I haven’t missed a dose of medicine! This is huge for me. I don’t always like the way some of my medicines make me feel, specifically the ones that exacerbate my GI issues. But I haven’t missed a pill, a vitamin, or a shot and it makes a big old difference. I haven’t eaten anything after midnight! Let’s just call it like it is. I’m a mogwai and when I eat after midnight (which, frankly, has happened a lot in the past) I see it in my blood sugar and on my body the next day (eye bags – excess sugar gives me freaking eye bags!) Ideally, I’d like not eat after 8pm, but the theater lifestyle doesn’t always allow that to work, so one step at a time! Meticulously counting steps and activity! I have been utilizing my Fitbit religiously. While a combination of snow and sciatic neuropathy has kept me from distance walking the way I’d like, I’ve used my pedal machine and upped the ante with my general activity, which has been so vital to how good I’ve been feeling, even on my bad days! I’m also so, so grateful to my folks in The Conqueror Crew on Facebook! We’re putting in the mileage together towards marathon goals! It’s a loving, encouraging group and makes me eager to post milestones, knowing we’re inspiring each other along the way.
So. With all of this in mind, we head into another week of mindfulness – not just about food and activity – but about wellness, happiness, and a positive attitude! These are all VITAL to my journey and I’m really glad to have found my stride.
Fasting Blood Sugar: 220 (eep. Don’t @ me. I forgot to take my insulin shot last night and have set an alarm.)
Today’s Goals: Walk at least 15 minutes towards my marathon. Organize my bedroom. Stick to the scheduled food plan. CLEAN MY MIRROR. BECAUSE LOOK AT THAT MESS.
If there’s no pics, then it didn’t happen, right? So here are a few. Zero make up.
Isabelle INSISTED on being in the picture. There’s a muscle in there somewhere.Oh. My. God. Becky. Look at her butt.This one is titled Rosacea and Tiddies.
It’s after four in the morning on the first day of 2022, a brand-new year. As I sit here, sipping generic tangerine flavored water from Wegmans, repeatedly removing my eight-pound fur-daughter from her favorite place (my lap) so I can type, it has occurred to me that there is a tremendous cache of things lined up in my brain that fall under the general category of “To Do.” Now, if you know me at all outside of this blog, you already know this about me. I am a list maker. A prioritizer. An organizer. I always work out of no less than three planners. Yup. Three. All up to date. One is my meal planner. The other two are versions of the same planner, only one is for the house and one is a smaller planner for carrying in my bag. Yes, I do know they have made it so you can have these things online in the 21st century. But I have an online planner, too, weirdos. I just like to write things down so I can see them. Remember them. Cross them off. You get the gist. Anyway. Back to the To Dos.
This accumulation of things includes a lot of very heavy material such as scheduling past due doctor’s appointments, gearing up for my surgery, and filing paperwork to defer my student loan payments, but there’s also another section dedicated to things I very much want to do. A wish list, for lack of a better term. Or maybe we should call it a “Work Toward.” Regardless of what I name it, it’s an ever-growing catalogue of things I want to do for the first time, or was able to do in the past, and would like to do again once I have the physical ability. This morning seems like the perfect time to document bits and pieces to get my blood pumping and my soul excited for the dawn of an infant year. A year I have ZERO plans of wasting! In absolutely no particular order, here are some of the things on my “Work Toward!”
Traveling. In my heart, I’m a pure world-traveler. A glorious partaker of wanderlust. In my teens and early twenties, I conquered a good chunk of the British Isles, Ireland, and mainland Europe. Then I started getting wider in the body and air-travel became a phobic experience. Literally trauma-inducing. The last cool place I visited on an airplane was Montreal several years ago. I’d like to see more places. Maybe get a world map. Stick some pins in it. And not worry that my body is taking up the space someone else paid for on the plane.
Roller Coasters. Or Amusement Parks in general. The last time I was able to ride a roller coaster without feeling like I might need to go to a hospital from trying to squeeze into the seat was when I was maybe 17? And that sucks because I LOVE roller coasters. I love rides. The only ones I can get on now are the type you can step down into. If I have to fit in a seat or climb into a seat? No dice.
Write an original full-length play. I’ve done several (very bad) one act plays and a full-length adaptation, but I’ve never written a full two act-er. I’m ready for that challenge and have already started a storyboard, research, and several sample monologues for a project that has the working title “Book of Hours.” After reading an article on the student who discovered new information about the circle of women who kept Anne Boleyn’s book of hours for Elizabeth I (a treasonable offense in Tudor England), I was struck with an idea for a play. The piece is an abstract story centering on Elizabeth I and her struggle to make the political decision to execute her cousin Mary Stuart. She turns to her mother’s Book of Hours for comfort and guidance, and suddenly Anne is there to guide her, along with the help of a Greek Chorus of women who helped protect and raise Elizabeth in a world patriarchal to the extreme. Nary is there a mention of ANY MAN. Not even the ones calling the shots. They might be referenced, but they’re never the “subject.” I’m out to pass the Bechdel Test with a Perfect. Fucking. Score. I also unashamedly love the women of English history between 1420 and 1603. She-Wolves. Mold-breakers.
Plan an entire Strand Season of new work by women. Did you know that playwrights rarely see the monetary equivalent of the full value of their art once they allow a publisher or play service to distribute rights to their work? It’s honestly disgraceful. That one hundred bucks a show you pay for your small theater to do a show for a few weekends? By the time the house takes their cut and pays their people, the sliver the playwright is entitled to is tiny. Because of this, I want us to be able to support new playwrights directly. Help to foster new writers in a world where the need for art is great. Don’t be fooled when people say the arts are a luxury. What did you do when we were all locked down? Read a book? Someone wrote that. It’s their art. Watch a show? Someone acted in that and directed it. Someone designed the costumes. Someone did the set design. That’s their art. Listen to a playlist to calm down when all you wanted was to have lunch with your mom and couldn’t? The person singing/playing that song? That’s their art. Now tell me again that art is a luxury. I’m going to hire playwrights you’ve never heard of. Who live down the street from us. Who deserve a chance to shoot their shot. And produce the hell out of their stories.
Swimming Pools. Growing up, we had a swimming pool in my backyard. From the time I was about 9 all the way through adulthood, my parents’ backyard was a favorite destination of friends and family. And I LOVE to swim. But once my compressed sciatic nerve started causing neuropathy in both of my feet and foot drop joined the party, my ability to climb steps without having to hold a railing became non-existent. And if you’ve ever seen the height of the top step of just about any swimming pool, you understand why it’s almost impossible for me to get into a pool. You’d think they’d design more pools with a ramp system. Cause, you know, the ability to exercise weightlessly is ideal for differently abled people like me – BUT WE HAVE TO BE ABLE TO GET IN THE DAMNED WATER (and preferably without the three-ring circus that is “using the handicap chair.” That. Is a story for another time.) I want to be able to swim. And water walk. And Zumba in a place where I don’t have to worry about falling.
Foray into Herbalism. I’ve always been interested in the medicinal and practical properties of plants. I remember being about 11 years old the first time I looked up plants in books. Desperately awkward, yet advanced, I was starting to love history and had my first introduction to “the old ways.” I would sit in my parents’ back garden, where I had fashioned myself a mortar and pestle out of a sawed-off broom handle and half a hollow cinderblock, and crush plants, lay them out to dry, see what they smelled like. Sometimes what they tasted like. What colors they made. As a woman in middle age, I’m rediscovering this love for learning about the bounty of the natural world and wanting to know more about how to get back to basics of using plants in medicine, cooking, etc. I have a pretty cool book – “The Green Witch” by Arin Murphy-Hiscock. Looking forward to getting into that.
Convince someone to let me use their kitchen to work through the Outlander cookbook. I got the Outlander cookbook a few years back as a Christmas gift. The recipes look amazing and are very traditional to what would have really been eaten during that time. While I know I won’t be able to eat all the things for surgical reasons, a lot of the satisfaction I get from cooking is trying new techniques. Also, there’s the bonus of that “Food is Love thing” I talked about in my last post. Preparing food is an art all its own. And really, the Cock-a-Leekie Stew sounds too good not to try. So, if you’re reading this and you want to volunteer as tribute, this is your chance.
This isn’t the end. In fact, it’s just the beginning! I’m going to re-name this blog (which currently has a working title of “Lest You Should Think It’s All the Blues” – lol) “Work Toward.” From time to time, I’ll add more of the 2347612398471293847 things in the cache as it strikes my fancy. Make sure you look for Part 2, coming in 2022!
Also. Tell me about your Work Toward in the comments. I’m listening!
TW: Food Addiction, Depression, Anxiety, Body Shaming, Fat Shaming, Body Dysmorphia.
It’s the last day of 2021.
And it has been a year.
I’ve had more than my fair share of health struggles – both physical and mental – but there have also been monumental breakthroughs. And this is probably the biggest. Also, possibly the most embarrassing, but I’ve learned not to be shy about my struggles. It helps me to talk about it and, sometimes, it helps other people to know they’re not alone in their own battles.
So, here it is.
Food is my currently my greatest happiness.
Food.
Not relationships. Not art. Not the beauty of the natural world.
Fucking. Food.
And I may ask myself. HOW DID I GET HERE?
My god… what have I done…
How did this happen? How did my every waking moment wind up being about planning what I’ll eat next? When I’ll eat next? How did a fundamental part of survival become more about pleasure and endorphins than fueling? It’s not an easy trajectory, but I have some ideas.
It’s pretty simple, actually. I am an addict.
That’s hard for me to admit and even harder for me to type for posterity.
But I am. I’m addicted to how food makes me feel when I’m eating it.
Somewhere along the line, likely right after high school (I’m still working on pinpointing the trigger) I started to fill the emptiness, the loneliness, the low self-esteem, the imposter syndrome – with food. I mean, who cares if you’re the only one in your friend group not in a relationship WHEN THERE’S NACHOS.!? Who gives a toss about being constantly undervalued and underestimated WHEN THERE’S A PATTY MELT? Oh, are those pretty girls and their boyfriends laughing at me? I’LL JUST ORDER A PIECE OF CARROT CAKE. And why does it fill the void exactly (other than the obvious physical filling of my stomach)? Well, I’m glad you asked. Turns out this is a learned behavior that is one part cultural and one part familial, which equals one whole road to fucked up that began before I could’ve realized where I’d be today as a result.
I come from a moderately large, primarily Eastern European, and Celtic, family. Let me explain what this means metabolically speaking. I’m built to outrun the English. I’m built to last through famines. I’m built to have a baby strapped to my chest while I plow a hop field somewhere outside of Warsaw. If I was a truck, I’d be an F 350. If I was a dude, I’d be a starting Middle Linebacker.
I come from a stock of mostly tall, broad, strong folks. But that stock is also predetermined towards… drumroll, please… you guessed it – Obesity! And from the very earliest of ages, when my mother was still responsibly controlling what I ate, that gene declared itself awake and reporting for duty in my sturdy little body. But here’s where it gets weird.
Along with those cultural components comes a familial element that may be the most challenging part of this battle. In my family? Food. Is Love. Grieving the death of a loved one? Make enough food to feed an army and EAT IT ALL. Celebrating a milestone? You need CUPCAKES! Is it the birth of our country? BRING ON THE BARBEQUE! Easter Sunday? MASSIVE BREAKFAST. Someone is sick? You make soup. And bread. And hot toddies. And cookies. Sadness? Feed it. Happiness? Feed it. Anxiety? Feed it. FEED. ALL. THE. THINGS. We showed our love for one another by making bread and breaking bread. We still do it. And it truly never occurred to me until I hit middle age that what we do? It is usually way too much. I always laughed at friends who said “Oh my god! Look at all this food! Are more people coming?” No, friend. More people aren’t coming. This is just for us. Because EATING IS HAPPY. And that mindset has bred an excessive habit that is not serving me well. In fact, it’s doing incredible disservices because I can no longer do the things I love. Those beloved things have been replaced with edible things – and that, my friends, is a slippery slope to try and balance upon.
Dr. Brenda (my therapist) and I have been doing a LOT of work on figuring out what makes me tick. It’s not always the easiest task to sit back and really look at yourself HONESTLY. And I say honestly, because the first word I typed was “critically.” That’s inaccurate. I’m pretty sure the easiest thing I do on the daily is criticize myself. But peeling back the layers to look at the damage I’ve been covering up with waffles is a straight up exercise in torturous liberation. I’ve eaten my way through heartaches and disappointments. I’ve padded my self-loathing in carbs and cheese. I have become Ms. Pac-Man in my quest to try and find something, anything, to be happy about. Which is insanity. Because there’s so much more to look forward to in my life. Food is just the fuel to do those things.
One of my health goals (for the rest of my life – not talking about resolutions, here) is to replace food with activities that make me happy. This blog entry is an excellent example. It’s almost 2am. I wanted pizza rolls. Instead, I diverted that want into expressing myself. It’s a win. A big one.
I’m not always going to succeed. There WILL be times when I give in, but when those moments of weakness show themselves, rather than following my old road of map of throwing in the towel, I’ll document it. Then I’ll really consider what brought me to that point and figure out what tools I need in my coping toolbox to give myself better choices in the future. It’s the only way for me.
It’ll help me get back on stage.
And get the feeling back in my feet so I can do things like get in and out of swimming pools and walk on the beach and not fall over and rip all the skin off my knees and elbows.
These may seem like small things to most people.
But the thing I want most is to be able bodied again.
I watched a TikTok by the amazingly hilarious and talented Elyse Myers today. It got me to thinking…
From as early as I can remember, I have been “othered.” I’m not sure how young that was? Maybe 3? That was the time when I started gaining more weight than other kids without good reason. It was also the time when everyone from family members, to neighbors, to teachers, and other kids, started feeling the need to comment on my body size. Maybe I was 4, around when I started pre-school? Either way, I was “The Big Kid.” The girl in the middle of the back row of every yearbook picture. Not just a head taller than everyone else, but also R O U N D. Fat. Or my favorite term for it, “heavyset.” Ugh. Shudder. I hate heavyset. It makes me feel like a squat rack. Anyway…
Erin. A Normal Sized Age 2
I was born in 1979, which means I was a child of the 80s, and a preteen and teenager of the 90s. And let me tell you, that time-period was ENTIRELY different than things are now – not that now is so-much-better – but in many ways it is. In the 80s and 90s there was no “fat acceptance.” There were no “body positivity advocates.” There was Weight Watchers and Jane Fonda and Slim Fast and the women’s section of JC Penney. No Torrid. No options for plus sized kids. In fact, they didn’t even make gym shorts in my size. My mom had to sew me a pair. And my extraordinarily well-meaning mother had me on every possible diet to try and save me from becoming a social pariah. Essentially, this meant two things: 1. I was almost always hungry (I was also growing like a weed and about 5’6 by the time I hit 6th grade) and 2. I looked like a 12-year-old Administrative Assistant because no one made clothes for kids who didn’t fit into a certain size dimension. And you know what I absolutely did not need? Shoulder pads. You know what every single piece of clothing purchased for me had? Shoulder pads. But I digress.
Can we talk about the belt? Who needs a belt to exercise?
At a very early age, the pattern of self-loathing began for smol Erin. Whether it was a family member yanking my shirt down when it would ride up on my backside to hide my shape, or my father (please don’t @ him, he’s dead, I love him, and I forgave him long ago) telling me that I better quit eating because no boys would ever be interested in me if I was a fat girl. Or my grandmother (same rules apply as they do for dad) who stocked candy for my thin brother and cousins but would publicly shame me for taking the same number of jellybeans because I “don’t need those.” I was taught I was wrong. Not worthy. Not the desired type. Somehow less than because I weighed more than. I learned to tell the self-deprecating joke about myself before anyone else got a chance to do it for me. I taught myself to camouflage my appearance with humor, with people-pleasing, with intelligence, and amenability to things other than what I wanted because it made me easier to stomach. But there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. In fact, there was a lot to celebrate. So, let’s talk about that.
Erin. 1997. 240 pounds.
My mother taught me to read before I even started school. Did you know that? By the time I was 8, I was reading books like The Red Badge of Courage and A Wrinkle in Time. I started playing soccer at 6 and made travel teams, consistently, every year. I weighed 240 pounds in high school at 5’8 and varsity lettered EIGHT TIMES. I was in the National Honor Society. School plays. Band and Jazz Band. I had a job. I went to every high school dance – with a date, even. I had wonderful friends and was almost never in trouble. It didn’t occur to me to do anything other than try to be an achiever. To make up for the fatness with something – anything – else. But it never stopped the judgement. It never stopped people from assuming I was lazy. Or even better, stupid. Because surely everyone knows Fat = Stupid. I mean, all you have to do is eat less, right? Exercise, right?
I was doing those things.
I was doing all of them.
From the age of 8 all the way through NOW – at 42 – I have been on a diet.
Weight Watchers.
Jenny Craig.
Nutrrisystem.
Medifast.
Slim Fast.
Phentermine.
Alli. (Don’t even get me started on this one….)
Keto.
And you know what it did?
At 21 I was anorexic.
At 25 I was bulimic.
AND STILL FAT. And yes… that CAN happen. Look it up. It’s a thing.
There was nothing wrong with me.
There IS nothing wrong with me.
Do I have metabolic failure? Do I often make poor choices when I eat? Sure.
Has my health failed as I’ve gotten older and is potentially comorbid to my obesity? Sure
Am I a less worthwhile human being because of that? No.
But people love to say otherwise.
The Assistant High School Track Coach and Guidance Counselor who stood 15 feet from me and talked loudly on a hot day at a track meet about what a shame it was that my parents allowed me to become grotesque and that the last thing I needed was the sugar filled Gatorade provided for us.
The teacher who not only commented on my body, but also made fun of me for sharing mozzarella sticks with a friend at lunch and stated, for everyone to hear, that the cafeteria sold salads and that if I ever wanted a career onstage, I’d better start eating those instead. That teacher was overheard by another faculty member and reported to administration who demanded they apologize to me. They did but then TORTURED ME for the rest of my high school experience. Which I HID because it was easier to take the abuse than be embarrassed by it.
The college professor who told me there was no way I’d be cast in black box productions because I took up too much space.
BECAUSE MY BODY TOOK UP TOO MUCH SPACE.
This, huge, terrible, awful, no good, very big body.
I was 20 here.
1998. 260 pounds. Regal AF
Words can intrinsically damage the foundation of who we are as developing human beings. And the world we live in has weaponized words against the human body for as long as I can recall. Especially the bodies of women. (Guys – I know you get shamed, too. But I’m speaking about my own lived experience, here.) We’re developing as people from the moment we’re born until the day we die. It doesn’t get easier to ignore cruelty with age. It is so vitally important to have care with the words we choose when we speak about other humans, whether they’re friends or strangers. When I see the little girls, rather than commenting on their prettiness, I find different positives to focus on, instead. My goodness! What a great leader you’ll be! Oh my, what beautiful kindness you have when you share with your little brother! I bet you’re going to be anything you want to be someday! You use your words so well!
Words matter, folks. As a fully grown adult human, I spend every day of my life undoing damage done before I was even given the opportunity to learn how to love myself because of the words used to describe my body. Not my soul or my spirit. Not my kindness or my love of others. Only my earthly being. The shell that contains me. It’s criminal to allow patterns like this to continue. And so, I ask you. From the bottom of my heart. Use your brilliant hearts and minds to be thoughtful of your choices when speaking to and about others.
And never, under any circumstances, choose shoulder pads.
Unless you’re Joan Collins, then you do you, you bad ass bitch…
CW: Fat Shaming, Visible and Invisible Handicaps, Bullying, Health Journey, Weight Loss.
Yesterday afternoon, I went grocery shopping. I parked in a handicapped space at Weis, got out of my car with my reusable bags in hand and walked into the store. There was an older woman, likely 60 – 70 years old, walking in behind me. I pulled out a grocery cart and then pulled one out for her as well. She smiled and said thank you and we both went about our business. Or at least I did. She was on a whole other mission.
I spent about 30 minutes in the store. Got everything I needed. Went to self-check-out. Paid for my groceries. Headed for my car. And then, out of the blue, there she was. Rolling up behind me with her cart that had one tiny bag in it. She waited for me. She actually fucking waited for me.
“Hi! How are you?” she started, in a friendly enough way, then, before I could answer, “Don’t you think these spaces should be reserved for ‘actual’ handicapped people?” I looked at her. She shrugs her shoulders and smiles condescendingly. I respond, “I’m not sure what your angle is, but I am, in fact, actually handicapped.” She beams at me again; in the most patronizing way you can imagine. “Oh no, sweetheart,” she says, “I mean actually handicapped, like, people who served their country and lost a limb, or the elderly, or, you know, people with mobility issues. Not people who are just obese. You’d do better to park farther away and walk. You look like you need it.”
Then the sky opened up and it started to pour. I was so flabbergasted I just stood there for a moment while she ran for her car. I let it rain on me as I watched her pull out of the space. As she passed by, I did something I’ve never done in my life to this point. I smiled like a crazy person and tossed both of my middle fingers into the air. I jumped up and down for good measure. I wanted to make sure she saw me. And she did. Shaking her head and judging me all the way.
You know what, lady? Go ahead. Because you mean exactly NOTHING to the fabric of my life. Zero. Zilch. Nada. In fact. It didn’t even hurt my feelings. I’m so accustomed to this behavior it doesn’t even phase me anymore. But I’ll tell you what really does cook my goose – uninformed opinions, unkindness, and a simple lack of polite behavior. We experience it more and more every day. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it a million times in the future – the dawn of social media has been the death rattle of social grace. People feel the need to share their biases openly and wantonly as though we’ve all been waiting with bated breath for their opinions. Folks have become seemingly feral in their zeal to share their innermost thoughts and feelings. And the result? Well… in my opinion, it’s often pretty gross.
Let’s examine this for a moment, shall we? This person, who felt the need to share her thoughts about my fat and disabled body, followed me through a supermarket and waited for me to come out. I had three large bags of groceries and she had one small bag. She was finished way before me. She could have just gone home and beat the torrential downpour we were standing in after she lectured me. But she didn’t. She lingered in the parking lot, waiting for me to come out so she could tell me how she felt. She spent her time trying to guilt me – FOR PARKING IN A SPACE I AM ABSOLUTELY ENTITLED TO USE. And not because of my fatness, but because I have no less than seven diagnoses that render me handicapped by the State of Maryland. And if I lost 200 pounds overnight, I would STILL be handicapped because morbid obesity (ICD 10 code E66.01) is NOT one of those diagnoses.
Asthma. Compression of the Sciatic Nerve. Herniated discs at C2, L3, L4, L5, S1. Altered Gait. Compressive neuropathy of both feet. Foot drop. Loss of balance. Apart from the altered gait that causes a limp when I walk, these are all handicaps you CANNOT see. I look just like any other stylish human with wild hair and a penchant for rainbow tie dyed clothing.
Yet this woman wants me to give up my handicapped space for someone more deserving. More valuable. Which, in our culture, means Less Fat. I find it ironic that one of the few times I become visible, or seen by the greater populace, is when I’m being targeted for my body size and shamed for it. 99% of the rest of the time, people look past me, around me, through me. You’d be surprised how many times an elevator door closes or a man in a suit holds a door for a normal sized woman, but then suddenly becomes blind when I’m rushing toward him. My invisible handicaps and visible fatness make for the perfect equation for prejudice, distrust, and scorn.
It could be an incredibly depressing a hopeless situation if I let it.
But I won’t.
Get ready for more middle fingers, world. Cause they coming.
In the wake of yesterday’s big announcement, I received a tremendous amount of support from the family and friends of my social network. It was a joyful experience and filled my heart more than I could possibly express in words. But it also, entirely inadvertently, opened a wound that has been scarred over my heart for as long as I can remember. I call it the “Ley Line of Social Conformity.” Let me explain, and then let me implore.
As a human who has been fat since the age of three, it has been my life experience that the majority of people disapprove of my obesity. – often publicly, openly, and hurtfully – even if it’s unintentional. My first recollection of being publicly treated as the “Other” was at a grocery store with my mother. Another shopper was very concerned about the fact that my mother had me with her at Roses around lunch time on a school day and questioned her about it. To be fair, I was tall, I was chubby, and spoke in full sentences like a much older child. My mother explained I wasn’t old enough for school yet. The lady was clearly surprised. “Oh,” she said. “She must be a very good eater.”
Not… “Oh! Such a large vocabulary for her age! You must work with her” Or “She’s so intelligent and well-spoken for a kid not yet in school.” No. It would be the first slice into the tender meat of my sensitive little heart and set a pattern that has continued for 38 years. It etched the first trace of the ley line. The lie my brain tells me that states, unequivocally, I must be thin, or I am not worthy of society’s approval. And every time someone around me buys into the well-worn theme that fat equals any of the following: stupid, lazy, dirty, ugly, unhealthy, gross, unworthy, undatable, valueless, or less-than, the scab is torn off and another line is carved deeper into the groove.
Now, what does this mean, precisely, for you – my family, my friends? It means I need you to understand that who I am now, what I look like – right now – at the fattest I’ve ever been – is absolutely okay. And that if I made the decision NOT to have surgery and spend the rest of my life in this way, that would be fine and acceptable, too. Don’t congratulate me on making the decision to lose weight. Because being fat is not a crime. If you going to congratulate me, do it like most of you did – for making the decision to be happy/understand what’s right for me/to know my own worth.
When people congratulate others on weight loss, for a fat person, it’s often a Bon-Jovi level shot through the heart. The society-to-fat translation is: “Way to go, former porker, you’re not disgusting anymore!” Do you think I’m any of those things I mentioned in the paragraph above? No. You don’t. (And if you do, this blog is REALLY gonna get your grits. lol) But ask yourself this question and answer genuinely – How many times have you used that language about yourself, or thought it about a stranger? It’s OKAY if you have. I have, too. But you know what? I know better now. Those stereotypes, those tropes – they’re lies.
Health doesn’t look the same on everyone and anyone who tells you it does would like to speak with you about your car’s extended warranty. Humans love nothing better than defining what is ideal and what is deplorable. It’s programmed into our DNA. We live by standards and measures. But it is our job as thinking animals to challenge our instincts and further the progress of civilization. It is acceptable and worthy to be a person of color, when once there was a lie that it wasn’t. It is acceptable and worthy to be a person who loves someone of the same gender, when once there was a lie that it was deviant. It acceptable and truthful to believe gender is a construct and is fluid, when still, people wield their bibles and quote fiction because of ignorance. Yet somehow, we haven’t quite gotten to the point where we understand it’s okay to be exactly the way we’re made. It’s the truth though. I am perfectly made just as I am. So are you. Read that again.
The hardest lesson I’ve had to learn thus far is I am perfectly worthy of love and acceptance precisely as I am. I have to remind myself of this fact daily. It has become a mantra. A prayer. A balm to the Ley Line of Conformity.”
Please don’t congratulate me for my weight loss journey. You’re better than that. Congratulate me for finding joy. We all deserve it.
CW: Weight Loss, Bariatric Surgery, Fat Shame, Depression, Body Dysmorphia
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Disclaimer: It is important to me that my friends understand this post is about my individual health and is not a judgement on the overall health of the beautiful humans of the world who are fat. I fully understand fat does not equal unhealthy and people can be many different sizes and shapes and they are all beautiful – fat, thin and everywhere in between. This is about me and me only. With that said, if the idea of bariatric surgery is upsetting to you, please scroll forward now. You might also want to consider unfollowing me because this is going to be a process and I’m going to be posting about it often. I love you and will not be offended if that’s the case. I believe in people doing what they need to do to be happy, healthy, and safe. Also – it’s me. This is gonna be a huge block o’text. I can’t control myself.
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Today, I got on the scale, and I weighed 339.4 pounds.
I cannot feel either of my feet or my left leg.
I am an insulin and oral medication dependent diabetic who takes additional medications for depression, anxiety, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, acid reflux, and migraines.
The discs in my lower back from L3 through S1 are completely herniated. It wouldn’t help to do surgery as anyone who knows me sees I have a 75-pound belly on the front of my body.
I cannot walk long distances.
I cannot walk up steps that don’t have a railing.
I had to have someone help me out of a pool in Ocean City two years ago because I couldn’t manage the top step, even WITH the railing.
In 2019, I tripped and fell behind the Lyric Stage at the Renaissance Festival and couldn’t pick myself up off the ground. I was bloody and stuck and had to wait for someone to pass by and help pick me up because my legs don’t work and have no balance.
This wasn’t the first time I fell. It was the third. I have permanent scars on my left elbow and knee from a run in with Read Street after a performance of Vinegar Tom. I also hit the pavement after opening night of Little Women.
I am not okay. I am not healthy.
And I can’t live like this anymore. I won’t.
I’ve decided to follow through on a decision I made before my Dad passed away in 2013 and have bariatric surgery. This is a decision 38 years in the making and one I haven’t come to lightly. I’ve tried to diet, tried to exercise, and hold myself accountable with minimal success. I used to be terrified of having an IV put into my arm. Of hanging skin. Of what might happen when I was no longer ‘Erin Riley, Fat Friend.”
I’m not afraid anymore.
I’m more afraid of missing out on the rest of my life.
I’m more afraid of not being here for your milestones. Your weddings. Your promotions. Your babies being born. Your art being made. Your achievements. Everything.
I’d like to ride a roller coaster again before I die. Or fit in a plane seat and see the UK again.
I’d like to be on stage, which is extremely difficult when one cannot feel one’s feet.
I hate to give Opening Night speeches because I am LITERALLY afraid of falling when I have to stand in the dark and have the lights come up on me. I get disoriented and must concentrate on balancing AND remembering everything I have to say.
I’d like to dance at Hunter’s wedding.
I’d like to take care of my mother.
I want to be here. And if I stay morbidly obese, my days will be fewer than I’d like.
Not because a thoughtless medical professional with fat phobia tells me so, but because I can feel it.
My check engine light is on.
It’s time to do the maintenance.
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I’ll need your support in the coming days, weeks, months, and years. And the fact is – I know I already have it. I’ve always had it. But I’ve been lying to myself when I say my body isn’t in decline. I’ve had a harder time looking in the mirror lately, but it’s not an issue of physical attractiveness. (Although, in the spirit of being genuine, I struggle with not finding myself repulsive every day.) It’s an issue of knowing I’ve let this go on for way longer than my happiness deserves.
I’m determined to do the right thing by myself, and this is it.
So, here we go, friends. #175by45 is the Goal. I expect you to help hold me to it.
If you got this far, thanks for supporting me.
You inspire me to stick around for the long haul.
And I love you for it.
Also – here is a fat lady in a Pride romper with a pink faux hawk (and Isabelle’s tail) here to remind you that all bodies are beautiful.
My Friends. Here we are at the end of another year, but not just any year… the COVID 19 year. The year the playhouses were shut down by the plague. The beginning of this season was an exciting one for me, personally. The Fall of 2019 marked the beginning of my time as the Strand’s Associate Artistic Director and my first attempt at adapting for the stage. Last year, during the “before times,” we were gathered in the theater (remember gatherings? And being in theaters?) bustling around and preparing for Little Women. It is a vastly different situation this year. In 2020 we have video auditions and Zoom rehearsals and socially distant filming days with staggered schedules. And masks. And hand sanitizer. So much hand sanitizer. And instead of you, our beloved audience, being here with us, you are at home on your sofas, too. The beautiful thing to come out of all this peculiarity, however, is the revelation that the feeling is the always same. Regardless of what is thrown at humanity, during the holidays we feel special – engaged – connected with each other on the most basic level. It is the most wonderful time to make art – when the heart is open.
In what has become an annual holiday tradition at the Strand, we’ve chosen a play based on characters written by a famous womxn identifying novelist that has been masterfully adapted by two brilliant womxn playwrights, and features a strong, relatable central heroine. Miss Bennet: Christmas atPemberley is a joyful sequel to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice that reintroduces us to Mary, the oft-ignored middle sister, as the Bennet family arrives at Pemberley to celebrate the Yuletide season. There are many reasons why I chose this particular piece to round out the year. We, like Mary, have felt isolation, loneliness, and uncertainty. We wonder what the future holds for us, and, at this point, if we can even control the trajectory of our lives. Will we wind up in the pandemic version of Mary’s spinster attic? Forever fated to stand six feet apart in front yards? We certainly hope not! But we know one thing for certain. It is so critical for us to celebrate anything we can, small or large, significant or trivial in the last months of this bizarre year. Mary’s story is the celebration we want and need.
The cast and crew of this show are a truly exceptional group. They have focused on finding ways to forge relationships in a format that does its best to make that impossible. We have adapted to this new theatrical normal together, making it our mission to build the world of Pemberley so we can all escape for just a little while. We are looking forward to being a part of your holiday this year, and every year.
Until we can all be together again – we wish you the safest, healthiest, and happiest of holidays.
Let me start with this disclaimer… I am an employee of the Maryland Renaissance Festival. This is my first year on staff as the Director of Julius Caesar performed by the brand new Company of Women. I do not speak as an authorized representative of the festival. This blog is my opinion and my opinion only. Also, all photos in this blog are the property of the brilliantly talented Kevin Hedgecock.
After the first weekend of the Maryland Renaissance Festival (forthwith known to this blog as Ren Fest), I got a Facebook message from a friend of mine who works at Johns Hopkins University. She was thrilled to tell me she overheard a conversation between two people in her office about the Ren Fest and, in particular, the show I directed. One of the women was saying she was pleasantly surprised by how good the Shakespeare was and that she didn’t certainly expect that from a Renaissance Festival. She then went on to make the desired noises about how cool it was to see women play non-traditional roles before moving onto the topic of how much cleavage was on display and how she wished they carried Coke products instead of Pepsi. **I feel you on this lady. I do.** But let me back up here for a moment and repeat the part that put a bee straight up into my bonnet.
She was pleasantly surprised about how good the Shakespeare was. At a Renaissance festival.
The SHAKESPEARE.
At a RENAISSANCE FESTIVAL.
Brief exposition here, just in case it’s needed… Shakespeare was born in 1564 and died in 1616. The English Renaissance took place from the late 1400s to the early 1600s. Shakespeare WAS the Renaissance. He is very likely the single most recognized playwright of the period. Of COURSE the Shakespeare is going to be good! What isn’t so good is the stigma that has grown around Renaissance Festivals and whether or not they are actual “theater.” I’m here to tell you, this one most certainly is real, honest-to-goodness, character-driven, plot-line focused, and highly improvisational theater.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a realist and I understand how the confusion can happen. The festival is a large space that isn’t ONLY a theatrical venue. There are artisan craftspeople that make amazing clothing, jewelry, musical instruments, and more – all for sale. There are martial events like the joust and the militia demonstrations with period weapons. There’s delicious faire food, lots of which comes on a stick for optimal eating and walking portability. A large majority of the patrons dress in costumes – and not just Tudor period costumes. On any given weekend, you’re likely to see characters from Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Dr. Who, and other popular fantasy series. There are outdoor bars. There are tons of shenanigans and, at times, it really can feel more like a Con than an artistic venue. But it doesn’t have to be one or the other. It ISN’T one or the other. It IS a celebration of art – of theater – of music – of history – of the end of summer and the coming of autumn. It’s about sharing time with friends. At the end of the day, when all accounts are settled, the performances happening on the stages, be they wrestling refereed by Shakespeare or the works of Shakespeare himself, ARE THEATER.
Let me tell you a little bit about what I learned in my first season of working at Ren Fest. The overall goals are simple, professional, and artistically sound. 1. Make sure every patron encountered has an immersive experience of England in 1532. 2. Provide the patrons with a wide variety of theatrical offerings in order to keep them entertained and have a little something for everyone. 3. Dedicate yourself fully to all of your characters in stage shows and on the street. Sounds easy, right? I assure you, it is a JOB, and one that requires training and formidable time management skills. When actors are hired for the professional Company of the Rose, they are given an initial character that belongs to either the royal court or is part of the village of Revel Grove. Some will be cast in stage shows such as this year’s Julius Caesar or Romeo and Juliet. Others will be cast in multiple STREETspeare’s (7 – 10 minute guerilla theater scenes that pop up in the village for people to stop and watch as they travel.) Then, they audition to be a part of musical acts such as The Queen’s Singers, The Singing Pages, or the Village Pub Sing. There are dance auditions for the daily court dances and village dances. And the Fight Corps, who make up the village militia, act as Fight Captains for stage shows, and participate in their own shows such as Fightasia and Militia Mayhem. In a single day, from 10am to 7pm, in temperatures ranging from 100 to 45 degrees, in costumes made of brocade and other heavy fabrics, an actor could play from four to seven different roles. Those roles have calls that take them all over the 27 acre festival grounds. And as they walk from one stage show to another venue, they are constantly stopping and talking to people in character, engaging small children, interacting with other street characters, giving directions to food booths and bathrooms and trying to keep it all straight – which they do MASTERFULLY. It is an art form all its own and requires actors to not only be fearless and resourceful, but to have the stamina and brain power to keep up with it all!
My experience working with The Company of Women has been a wonderful and enriching one. The Renaissance festival gave me the gift of Northwestern University educated Dr. K. Tony Korol-Evans as my dramaturge. This is the woman who wrote the damned book on Renaissance Festivals and their artistic contributions (go check it out – Renaissance Festivals: Merrying the Past and the Present.) She came in armed with the First Folio and hours upon hours of research on Rome, which was ideal because this cast is a group of cerebral, thoughtful, and thorough performance artists. My actors have classical backgrounds, BFAs and MFAs in Acting, intensive training in Commedia dell’Arte, and many are professional theater teachers. They were heavily invested in the scene work and paid careful attention to their scansion, meter, and delivery. They had incredibly thoughtful questions about the rhetoric and were ardently concerned over character points that were in the original text, but not the cut. You see, this version was cut from roughly 2400 lines to fit into a 58 minute time slot. Multiple characters were merged into one and others had to be lost to the cutting room floor, but the essence of the play remains intact in perfectly executed iambic pentameter. While many in our theater community might be inclined to scoff at this as a butchery of Shakespeare, it’s remarkable how much an audience still takes away from their time watching! On Monday mornings, the festival chat boards light up with tales of what people saw and what made an impression. Our audiences are very candid and expressive about what they enjoyed. My personal favorites are the stories parents tell about children and their reactions to the shows. A friend of mine was sitting behind a young girl during Caesar who immediately jumped up after curtain call and began to taunt her sister by yelling “I’m a Dog of War!” Marc Antony made an impression – maybe one that will inspire that young girl to be a historian, or an actor, or a military general. The show made an impact. It. Is. Theater.
I’m not sure where the fissure began between the artistic world at large and Ren Fest (at least in this area) but I find it truly confounding. At least 300,000 people, possibly more, flock to the festival each year. It’s well-attended and much beloved, but doesn’t seem to get its due. I’ve been attending the event since high school, which is over twenty years ago, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen it get so much as a mention by a local theater review (thanks, MD Theatre Guide for a Top Five Shows of the Week nod!) Why is that? It just doesn’t add up. One might argue the festival is a professional production, has a large following, and doesn’t need the publicity as much as other venues. Okay. Then explain why the Hippodrome, The Kennedy Center, etc., are still reviewed? You could also argue the festival is too large to narrow down into a reviewable format. Sure. There are challenges. But personally, I think it would be incredibly fun to see what a reviewer picks out of the day and likes or dislikes enough to mention!
Let me be really candid here for a sec.
Just because we sell turkey legs and chainmail bras (which are an artisan craft for crying out loud), it doesn’t mean there isn’t art to be found and appreciated. Hundreds of hours go into the careful planning of an immersive, cultural, and theatrical experience for people of all ages. It is an epic undertaking and one that should be allowed to take its place with every other theatrical endeavor in the area. Directors – when you see a performer with the Maryland Renaissance Festival on their resume, know you’re getting an actor who recognizes hard work, who has had on the street improv training, and who has at least three options in their back pocket to give you any time you ask for a choice. Actors – if you want an experience with a huge assortment of opportunities that will stretch you to the limit of your abilities and give you new tools to put in your repertoire – audition. Reviewers – I can’t be sure about this, but I bet if you emailed the festival and requested a press ticket for a review you’d get one. If that’s not the case, email me at erinlovesplays@gmail.com and I’ll buy you one! That’s how strongly I feel about the product being put out in Crownsville.
Of course the Shakespeare is good.
Come and see for yourself at the crossroads of where life meets fantasy and the theater is so close you can touch it… but please don’t. That might be awkward.
Life of Riley 