Bullying – Life of Riley

Do Better.

Dear Reader,

I am tired.

More tired than I’ve been in a while.

This afternoon, as I was cleaning my mother’s kitchen, I had a thought. And one that was highly unusual for me– What if I just give up? My friends and family would miss me, sure, but they’d heal. They’d get over it and move on. Wouldn’t that be easy? To just let go and move on to another plane? To release myself from worry and pain and fear? To stop the overwhelming anxiety coming at me from multiple directions. But it was a fleeting thought. And I’m going to tell you about how I got there, some lessons I’ve learned, and the next steps. Because sharing our struggles is important in the era of curated shows of our “best lives.”

Yesterday, I stitched a video on TikTok. It was a clip of Mary Poppins actor Emily Blunt making a comment about the enormous body size of a waitress who served her at a Chili’s in Thibodeaux, Louisiana. I didn’t know it at the time, because I’ve never heard of the movie Looper, but the clip is more than a decade old. It resurfaced on social media, and I happened to see it on my For You Page. She’s on a British chat show telling a relatively cute story about a Southern woman recognizing her and the funny exchange they had. The first things she says about her is that she is absolutely enormous and that she must get freebie meals from Chilis. Now, there is nothing wrong with being enormous. I, myself, am an enormous human. It wasn’t the adjective itself, it was how it was used. The tone was casually and unnecessarily cruel. Her facial expressions, her clear intention to belittle. and the audience reaction turned a word into something infinitely more sinister. Since I posted, and the video went live, it has been viewed over 240k times, has more than 4700 likes, and more than 800 comments. The video was picked up by both Glamour magazine and YahooNews! and I’ve been contacted by several news outlets, talk shows, and a newspaper asking for further comment.

But I’m not going to comment any further. Not on TikTok. And certainly not in the media who want to make me the main attraction in a circus.

Because this wasn’t about attention. Or going viral. Or 15 minutes of fame. This was about kindness. And the growing need for us to be more conscious of our intentions when we use words.

While many of the comments I received on the video are variations of “Atta Girl” and genuine responses from people who feel compelled to share an equally vile story of a thing that happened to them, many of them are unconscionably cruel responses about everything from my own body size to my choice of wardrobe to the pace at which I express myself. I have been called a pig. I have been told that I am a “skinny shamer.” I have been called stupid because, clearly, I think I know Emily Blunt and cannot tell the difference between the actor and her roles. I have been called dumb for not realizing that the British people, on whole, are blunt and unevolved world citizens who don’t understand that fat shaming is no longer acceptable in civilized society. And this morning? I received my first death threat, followed by a message telling me I “should really just go kill myself” rather than continue my “pitiful existence.”

None of these people actually know me.

Not a single one.

They don’t know that I, too, am a classically trained actor. And that I know the difference between an actor and their roles.

They don’t know that from June of 1999 until August of 2000, I lived in Great Britain, getting that conservatory theatre degree. And I learned that the British people are a lovely, welcoming, hilarious, and wonderful bunch. Did I experience fat bias there? Sure. But NOTHING like what I experience here in the United States.

And if they actually listened to what I had to say, they would understand that this is about body neutrality and not a hot take on fatphobia, all by itself. There is ZERO reason to comment to on ANYONE’S body, whether it’s fat or thin, tall or short, healthy or health challenged, black or white or whatever.

Not one of them knew that last night, I came out of Olive Garden after having a wonderful, laughter-filled birthday dinner with my beautiful nieces. And when I got into my car and turned on my phone, I had a panic attack from the hundreds of notifications, missed calls, and multiple voicemail messages that were waiting for me. Friends from high school and college were DMing me saying “Oh my God, is this you?? You’re on my FYP!” I had to pull over to the side of the road and call my best friend, shaking and in tears, because it was such an awful, overwhelming, experience. I wound up uninstalling TikTok from my phone after it drained my battery, and more importantly, my spirit. I have a small following on the app of less than 4000 people. If you scroll through my videos, you get a lot of content about my adorable cats, forays into which West Wing character I’m most like, silly lip synching, and much older content about my incredibly difficult, almost 3-year struggle to have Medicaid pay for gastric bypass surgery, which I’m still waiting on. I’m frankly more interested in watching videos of Travis Kelce worship at the altar of Taylor Swift and countdowns ‘til Christmas than people watching my own stuff. My videos are for me.

And the reason I made this particular video was because I’m sick and fucking tired of the human race doing PRECISELY what they did in the aftermath of a three-minute video filmed in the front seat of my Subaru. Making snap judgements based on faulty information and deeply ingrained bias. It’s exhausting to be part of a demographic of people who are consistently marginalized, stigmatized, and bullied on the basis of what, exactly? Taking up more space? Not being easy on the eyes? Fatphobia, fat shaming, fat discrimination, and fat hatred are very real things that I have experienced for as long as I can recall. In classrooms. On stages. In restaurants. And don’t even get me started on airplanes. I’ve stayed silent in awful situations for fear that the spotlight would be turned on me. I’ve spent 40 years squeezing my beautifully imperfect, ENORMOUS body into teensy spaces, willing myself into invisiblity because others don’t approve of my body. It’s CRIMINAL. And what does that say about the evolution of our race? If there is life outside of our existence on Earth, what the hell would they think of us? We are absolutely BRUTAL in our interactions with other people. And for what? A laugh? To make us feel stronger? Better? More vindicated? It’s a sad state of affairs and the truth is– we know better. We’re taught better. And every time we make a choice to neglect the chance to DO better, it makes us just a little less great.

So where do I go from here? Glad you asked. Cause I asked myself the same question and, ready or not, here it comes.

I’m not going anywhere. A few weeks ago, I made the conscious decision to choose happiness. To be conscious of kindness. To make the most of every crisp October morning and dinner date with my nieces. I choose to sing at the top of my lungs in a movie theater with my bestie and to take pictures with my friends, even when I wince at the double chin in the reflection that I’ve been taught to loathe for not being pretty. I choose to say no without shame when I don’t have the energy or inclination to do something. I choose not to be ashamed of the health setbacks I’ve experienced. I’m no less valuable because my hips and back are shot and my belly is big. I choose to smile at people and give as many non-body centric compliments as I possibly can. And I choose to fucking say something when I witness cruelty, bullying, and barbarity because I’ve been the target of it myself and it has made me afraid to speak up in the past. No more.

When I told Emily Blunt to do better, it wasn’t really about just her. It was about all of us.

We need to do better.

And Now…the Hard Work Begins

One of the themes I’ve been focusing on lately in therapy is my unhealthy
inclination towards people pleasing. My doctor and I identified the issue fairly early on in our sessions. It’s pretty par for the course for children of substance abusers (gotta deflect that gaslighty rage any way you can, you know?) and even more common for fat women over the age of 35 (the 90s were ALL about averting the body shame by being the charming, jolly girl who never complained about A N Y T H I N G.) But a chain of events over the past twelve months have put me into a mental health tailspin that I’ve never experienced before and it’s my current mission to never experience it again. While that’s unlikely, I’m certainly going to give it the old college try.

So, let’s talk about People Pleasing for a moment.

What is it? Why do people do it? And why is it self-serving, rather than selfless, at least in my case.

According to Paula Cookson, who wrote an amazing book called The Liberated Self, a People Pleaser is a person who has an emotional need to please others often at the expense of their own needs or desires. It is most often characterized by an inability to say no, even when tasks, favors, or jobs are detrimental to the pleaser’s physical, mental, emotional, and/or financial health. The behavior is the same with healthy boundaries—there usually aren’t any. Sounds like a dumb way to be, right? Why would anyone want to do that to themself?

There’s no single answer to that question. But in my case? It’s an unresolved trauma.

You see, when you learn from a relatively young age that you’re not as loveable as say, an ice-cold Miller Lite, you start to create escape routes. You form an uncanny ability to read people’s moods and try to head off a storm that’s gathering above your head by changing YOUR behavior to suit someone else’s. You learn to eat food you don’t like because it’ll cause a ruckus if you don’t. Then, you pacify yourself later with food you DO like by sneaking it because you’re sad, angry, and hungry after pushing a dreaded meal around on your plate. You learn to be the best at everything you do because nothing less is good enough. You start to believe comments made about your body and its undesirability are true because you never hear otherwise. You expect less because you’re programmed to believe you deserve less. That you are less than. The behavior is self-serving because it puts a band aid over a hemorrhaging artery. It’s supposed to be a temporary fix.

As you grow and develop, these behaviors learned in childhood become your norm and the emotional need to feel that other people are pleased with you becomes a need. You pick up the check at a restaurant when you can’t afford to because your friend might not like you as much if you don’t. You drive forty miles out of your way to pick up an actor who doesn’t have a mode of transportation because you like them, even though they don’t bother to offer gas money, and you make zero dollars a year because you don’t work. You take the blame when something fails, even if it’s not truly your fault, just to try and ease the tension around you. You say yes to, and get excited about, other people’s passion projects because, surely, they’ll care about you and your passions as much as you care about them and theirs, right?

Right?

But here’s where it all gets dangerous…

When you start putting other people’s needs before your own, it’s the behavior that becomes the norm. It’s expected. And it leads you headlong into unhealthy and manipulative relationships. After a while, it becomes so deeply ingrained you don’t even notice it’s what you’re doing. I’ve often asked the people in my life, “Do I have a sign on my back that says, ‘Kick me?’ Why does this always happen?”
The answer is yes. And I put it there.

It’s a traumatized Bat Signal.
People know I won’t say no.
They know I won’t put up a fight.
I become a means to an end rather than a valued person.
And it’s because I’ve felt so inadequate for so long that it’s the first vibe I give off.

But I’m tired of that.
I don’t deserve it.
I’m worth more than that scared (and scarred) little blonde baby was ever allowed to believe.

And now the hard work begins.

Whittling Away at the Hollow

Yesterday, we went to the baseball game.
If you saw pictures of the day on social media, it looked pretty great!
The sun was shining, the game was exciting – all the things you hope for at the end of June in Baltimore. Especially when you’re a passionate Orioles fan like me.

Unfortunately – the experience was more like a game of “find the hidden differences” between the photos and actual reality.
Kind of like ALL life on social media if I’m being entirely truthful.
Most people aim to present the most attractive, fun-loving, exciting, and happy versions of ourselves online, because somewhere it is writ that so long as we give the appearance of our best selves, that’s who we are. No one wants to see a picture of your hurt feelings or your wounded pride. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation behind it—but hell if I know what it is.

Anyway.

Cutting to the chase, I didn’t fit in the seat.
I don’t know if you understand how hard it is for me to admit that.
Hint: It’s fairly soul crushing.
Let me say it again, just to be crystal clear.
My hips and backside did not fit in the seat that was purchased for me. The smallish armrests were cutting so tight that my right side is bruised (admittedly, this is not hard to do – I am, after all, a peach.) My feet were pushed into the seats in front of me, causing the guy in the seat I touched to turn around and curse at me. I apologized. He didn’t care. I get it. I wouldn’t want someone’s shoes touching me either.

And here I was, a red-faced, sweating, mortified, superfat, middle aged woman – struggling.
To sit in a seat.
Not to run a marathon.
Not to end poverty or the Russian civil war.
Not even anything 95% of people see as difficult or noteworthy.
I was simply struggling to enjoy a day in my life – over a seat.
I had already been thrown for a loop when we got to Camden Yards 2 ½ hours early and the nearest handicapped parking space was over a half mile away from the front gate. But this development?
It’s “worst nightmare” material for a fat person.

It ranks right up there with hits such as:
“Don’t make eye contact in the airport so you don’t see people silently praying they don’t have to sit next to you.”
“Will the carnival ride safety thingmabob close over me,”
And the ever-popular Summertime standard,
“What are the odds I’m about to break this plastic patio furniture?”

By this point, dear reader, I’m sure you’re curious as to why I’m sharing this painful and embarrassing experience. I assure you I don’t want your sympathy. (Candidly, the sympathy makes it worse, like having a sore spot in your mouth that you can’t stop touching it with your tongue.)
What I am hoping for is the opportunity to share something about physical disability and its impact on my overall mental health.

Because they go hand in hand for me, those two things.

No matter how hard I try to separate them or say one doesn’t have anything to do with the other.
For some folks, that’s true. For me, it’s not.
As my physical health has declined, so has my mental health.
And it has extraordinarily little to do with a number on a scale. The last time I weighed less than 200 pounds was, I dunno, 1990?
Yes, I have become progressively heavier over time.

But it wasn’t until the heaviness stopped me that the floor fell out from under me.

Losing the ability to use my body effectively has been one of the hardest battles I’ve ever fought. And I’ve been fighting it for FIFTEEN YEARS, when I first hurt my back. In 2008, I thought nothing could be as bad as the shooting, stabbing, burning pain that ran down my legs. In 2019, I thought that nothing could be as bad as the numbness and tingling that set in or the general loss of balance that made it difficult for me to walk? (Remember that whole summer I fell down on sidewalks and ripped the shit out of my knees and elbows?) Fast forward to today, and it’s difficult for me to stand without swaying. If you’ve stood next to me for a period longer than five minutes, you’ve seen it. That slightly intoxicated- looking step back and the frantic glance for something to hold onto? Or when we’ve hugged, and you thought you were going to have to catch me because I’m pitching forward?

It’s nerve damage.
It may be irreversible.
And it’s because every doctor I’ve seen says the same things.

Lose 100 pounds, then we’ll talk.
Or,
If I operate now, your lower belly will just rip out all the progress.
Or,
This may or may not improve if you lose weight, but it couldn’t hurt to do that first.
And finally, my favorite – the ever-so-gaslighty,
You’re clearly intelligent, Erin, you don’t need me to tell you what the problem is. Let’s talk about you going keto and getting some of this unnecessary weight off and then we can plan for the future, hm?

So, you try.

But.

You cannot move well when you’re in near-constant, level 8+ pain.
So, you stop moving.
And then you stop saying yes to invitations.
And you isolate yourself.
And you get depressed.
And suddenly, you’re 44, you can barely walk a mile without crying from pain, you don’t fit in the goddamned seat, and you were raised in a time period where asking for help, accommodations, or acceptance while fat wasn’t just discouraged, it was programmed into your brain that it was not an option.
And then you decided to wage the goddamned battle of your life to have gastric bypass.

Because you remember.

You remember what it was like when you COULD do things.
When you could walk the length of the Ocean City Boardwalk and back – TWICE- for the sheer fun of it.
When you Varsity lettered 5 times in high school.
When you knew what it felt like to go down the first hill of a roller coaster on a hot night in July.
When you could stand on stage in a spotlight and not be worried you’re going to fall over because your equilibrium is terribly poor.

And you figured out how to ask for the help you need.
And the help you deserve.
And the help you should’ve been given all along.
**

In conversations, people often ask me, “So, Erin, what’s next for you? Any big projects on the horizon?”
Yup. I reply. This one is really personal. A play in two acts. It’s called “My Life.”

And we’re currently at intermission.

The Great Ozempic Saga

The Great Ozempic Saga Continues:

Healthcare, Fatness, and Other Dramas.

By Erin Riley

If you don’t want to read about my diabetes and bariatric journeys, scroll on by, superfly.

At the beginning of 2023, my primary care doctor was really very pleased with my blood work. Total cholesterol at 122, B12 and D are normal for the first time in like, a decade. Iron is up. And my A1C was sitting at 7.2. Which isn’t greaaaaat, per say, but below 7 is the goal, so there’s progress. Ever the perfectionists, Dr. Joe and I decided we were going to put me on Ozempic to try and lower that Hemoglobin and make it my bitch. He prescribed it. I started taking it once a week. BOOM. Daily fasting sugar came down about 15 points and I dropped 20 pounds in a month (WHICH WAS NOT THE GOAL. I REPEAT. NOT. THE. GOAL. I won’t say it wasn’t a bonus, but it was not the prescribed plan.)

I finish my first injector pen, I go for my follow up, we do some in- office blood work and things look freaking great. I haven’t had so much energy in months. We decide to keep me on the half dose because it’s doing the damned thing. Wonderful right?

Yeah… not so much.

After 2 1/2 weeks of fighting with CVS, fighting with Medicaid, EIGHT phone calls equaling 4 1/2 hours of my life, my doctor finally gets the damned drug RE-approved and the pharmacy processes it.

ONLY FOR IT TO BE OUT OF STOCK!

And why? Why is it out of stock? Because the Kardashians have named it “the new Hollywood Weight Loss Drug.”

But.

Before you think I’m about to bash people for trying to lose weight with medical intervention. Let’s Pause.

Cause I’m not.

Who I AM going to bash, however, is the inherently fatphobic, entirely greedy, and wholly over/under-regulated American Healthcare System and its evil twin Big Pharma.

Let me start with a disclaimer. IT IS OKAY TO BE A FAT PERSON. You are valuable. You are beautiful. You are loved. And you can certainly be healthy regardless of size. I have been a fat person for 40 years. I’ve hated myself for it. And I’ve done more than my fair share of penance to the medical fields who have taken care of me over the years. I’ve also learned to love myself as I am physically, however, my fatness is now a clinical issue affecting the quality of my life. So, don’t come at me. You don’t want to meet my Sagittarius rising…

The American public has been force-fed diet culture since the beginning of time and in main-stream media since as early as the 1940s. Specifically targeting women (although men aren’t immune, that’s for sure…) with slogans like “A Moment on the Lips, Forever on the Hips” and “Nothing Tastes as Good as Thin Feels” have been causing disordered eating and chronic depression and anxiety for literal generations. And why? The propagandists would have you believe it’s out of concern for human health, concern for the drain fat people are on the health care system, etc. But let’s grow up here for a second a face facts. It’s about MONEY. $$$ Did you know that the Global Weight Loss Industry made 470 BILLION dollars in 2021? Here’s the resource on that: https://www.businesswire.com/…/Global-Weight-Management…

The facts are pretty simple.

Fatness is blamed for the American Health Crisis

Fatness is stereotyped as lazy, disgusting, ugly, and unintelligent

Fat is equated with evil in mainstream media

BUT

Obesity (I hate that word) is classified as a chronic disease

Fatness doesn’t always have to do with lifestyle, it is often genetic

Calorie deficit and exercise rarely work for people who are genetically coded towards fatness.

AND

Health Insurance considers Bariatric Medicine, in many cases, COSMETIC

Health Insurance refuses to cover drugs like Ozempic, Wegovy, Mounjaro, etc., because fat people should just be able to starve their bodies into submission

2 out of every 3 fat folks surveyed stated “their doctors don’t listen to their problems and immediately point to their fatness as the issue.”

We have become so programmed to hate fatness and fat people, that life-improving and, in some cases, live-saving measures are being denied on the basis that fat folks should “just try harder” or just “do better.” Speaking a person who started her first round of pediatrician-prescribed Weight Watchers at 7, I’M NOT SURE HOW MUCH HARDER I’M SUPPOSED TO TRY.

So, I wait. I wait for the fucking Ozempic to become available. And I WELL-WISH the HELL out of the people who are using it for WHATEVER they need it for. Diabetes. Weight Loss. Whatever. I just want us all to have a damned shot. And that isn’t too much to ask. It’s just kindness. It’s just taking care of humans. It’s putting actual health and healthy practices over discrimination, greed, and hatred.

Also. How about we make more of the damned stuff. And regulate it so it doesn’t cost $12938471239 for people who don’t have health insurance.

It’s NOT that hard.

P.S. Hold your fat friends, trans friends, queer friends, BIPOC friends, and drag friends close. It’s exhausting when they keep coming for us.

https://www.usnews.com/…/body-positivity-weight-bias…

Precipice

The world is very heavy.
Just the air weighs a thousand pounds.
Children are hungry.
Children are dying.
The witch hunt has begun once again.
As it always does.

As. It. Always. Does.

Go ahead. Come for us.
We’re here. We’re tired, but we’re angrier than you could possibly fathom.
And that makes us dangerous.
That makes us desperate.
That makes us strong.
As it always does.

As. It. Always. Does.
Remember – god is a woman.

I sat tonight, dipping onion kulcha into raita
Savoring my sense of smell which is coming back.
Lucky.
And I thought about consolations.

We must get some kind of prize for living through this
Yes?
And maybe.
Just maybe.
It’s the art.

The art that was at the front line when everything went to hell.

75 years from now.
People will study us.
They will shake their heads
same
as we did
at those who came before
But they’ll look at the response.
At the fight
At the words
And realize that we are the rebels
That we didn’t sit back.
When it mattered most.

The art will prevail.
As it always does.

As. It, Always does.

On Words and Body Image

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…

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 6^th 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.

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.

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…

Judgement Day… or, a Normal Thursday Afternoon

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.