102:365

I  heard a quote recently. As a “fat” person (fat friendly), as I have been my whole life, I was left in utter disgust at people who don’t have the privilege to be fat. Or called “fat.” I feel sorry for the people in this world who aren’t fat. Because, for the most part, fat is lovely.

Anyways, the quote goes:

“Weight and body oppression is oppressive to everyone. When you live in a society that says that one kind of body is bad and and other is good, those with “good” bodies constantly fear that their bodies will go “bad”, and those with “bad” bodies are expected feel shame and do everything they can to have “good” bodies. In the process, we torture our bodies, and do everything from engage in disordered eating to invasive surgery to make ourselves okay. Nobody wins in this kind of struggle.”

Since I was in middle school, I knew my body was different. I knew I was different. I was taller, bolder, wider, and far more hilarious. When the moo’s and the jokes came, I was affected, but nothing else really made me want to eat less. I didn’t eat a LOT. I was just myself.

The moment I looked at my body and realized that it was fat was probably two years ago when I was cheated on by a boyfriend… or so it has never been proven. Or something. I suddenly realized all those times I compared my leg to his or another girl… or that my heart filled with rage whenever he would talk to another girl or something, that… something in ME was wrong. Something in me was bad.

I have never felt like what I had was bad.

The past two years recovering from this “bad” mindset has been weird.

Yet, I have always had confidence.

I’ve always felt great.

People only have power if you let them.

So, I’m not letting them.

F— that.

I want to be myself.

I want to be empowered.

Me, being fat, being a size fucking 14-16, with stretch marks and the jigglies, THIS BODY is a statement.

It’s a political statement.

It’s my big, “F-CK YOU,” to the photoshop world.

It’s my big fat fashion statement.

It’s mine.

It makes me feel like I am here. I am something. I am a force.

Since when has “fat” become a bad word.

I am healthy.

I am me.

And what you say cannot change me.

I can only change me.

96:365

Ya know what they say about old habits? They are always apart of you. Whether or not that is true is irrelevant in the eye of the beholder. Everyone has habits. Some are good; some are bad. Whether they are old or new, they are habits and they are apart of us.

To say that last night’s conversation was like old habits really hurt me a bit. It was if you were saying that it was a habit you wanted to get rid of. Like I am something you just want to get rid of. Maybe I’m inferring too far into your words, but that’s how I feel.

I miss the way it used to be… and I’m two years too late, I suppose.

I can’t help but feel like this is not supposed to end… whether or not that’s true is also irrelevant. I cannot be in a relationship by myself. I fantasize these thoughts and have dreamed things I shouldn’t… or perhaps I should. But I feel all these things for you. I realized when I got up from my dream the other day that they aren’t bad things. It’s good. I am finally feeling for someone else besides myself.

Maybe that’s all you’re good for for me…. to help me be selfless. Maybe you want me out of your life. Friends…. we are always going to be friends… who have seen each other ______. We are friends who gave each other a part of ourselves that we cannot take back.

If I ever came to visit, I would hope to always visit as friends… always. I always want to have you as a friend. You make me feel special and I need that. Everyone needs that. But, I will be tempted. It’s not a “sin” to be tempted.

It really pissed me off after you said you would be tempted with me… not that you are tempted but, if you are tempted, why you aren’t doing anything about it. But, that is selfish of me for you to drop everything and want me back. I think it. … and it can never be unthought.

But…

Everything is a but….

You never fought for me when I left. You just let it happen. I got hurt by N. I got hurt so bad I haven’t let ANYONE in since then. I almost gave my virginity up last summer after some HORRIBLE thoughts and insecurities flew by. Where were you? You were not waiting for me. You haven’t ever been waiting for me… and I deserved it, I guess.

My relationship with God has always been important to me. I flip off God a lot. I walk away from my relationship with God a lot. I sin, I walk, and I run back. God always loves me. My family is the same way. I have walked, sinned, and run back… and they still want me back. Friends have always done that.

When it comes to dating, I have never been able to mend that wound... I have never been able to fix it. There are reasons, I suppose. I suspect that we all have trust issues….

But, if you can tell me now that you have entertained thoughts of us or something of us, yet are staying with her, Then I should go. I have been on the other side of cheating before and it hurts. I don’t want to hurt her, although I don’t see why you are with her. I don’t see what she has that I don’t… other than your heart.

As friends, you never speak of her… which makes me believe she is not important. You don’t light up about her as you did with me.

But, I wanted you to chase me. 

I wanted you to want me back.

I can’t expect you to leave your relationship with her.

I can only expect you to think… what if?

It’s not fair. I am not fair. That’s life, though. I am torn between wanting to be friends with you, if that’s all I can have with you, and not wanting to be friends because I have these tremendous feelings for you that I can’t melt off. I can’t shake the feeling of wanting you to be mine. That will never go away. I tried drinking away the feelings. I tried dating other people. I tried everything… but I can’t shake you. What is the reason for that?

I don’t know what to do and I don’t want to lose you as a friend.

I just want to be heard.

So, I hope you heard what I had to say and what my heart is feeling.

I love you.

And I problem will for the rest of my lame ass life.

Because I’m a sucker for what coulda, shoulda, woulda been if I wasn’t such a damn fucking stupid human.

79:365

We know nothing about fitness and health.

Whether you are a personal trainer or a coach potato, we have zero understanding of healthy.

Let me explain.

The media has blinded us to believe that skinny is healthy. If you are skinny, you are healthy. If you aren’t skinny, well, damn it, you are not healthy.

But, I’ve been reading fashion magazines since I was a kid… and I’m looking at what is considered “healthy” and I am mortified.

When I see these photos, I don’t see health. I see photoshop. I see fashion. I see exciting. I do not see health.

As a 5’10” without shoes and, Lawrd knows, I ain’t telling you my weight, I know I will NEVER look like that without much pain and sorrow. Do I truly believe healthy is in the skinny?

I’m sure a trainer, or even my trainer, would tell me that a healthy person drinks plenty of water, sleeps 8 hours a day, and eats only organic greens and proteins. I can do all that until I’m blue in the face, but am I still healthy?

Is the answer Plus-size models? Is the answer starving myself? Is it zumba, pilates, yoga? Water? WHAT IS HEALTHY?

I believe true health is body and soul. I can be fit and skinny yet still be unhealthy in my mind. We often forget that our minds are just as good as our bodies. If our minds are not healthy, what is the use of life? What is the use of trying if my soul is weighed down?

So, we join religions. We do yoga. We search ourselves. We take life journeys and paths. We take pottery. We go skydiving. It’s all good, right?

But, at what point are we healthy?

What point can I stand before you and say I am healthy?

The size on my pants nor the food on my plate cannot determine that. It helps… but only I will know if I am healthy, right?

Sound off in the comments!

78:365

Leftovers.

 

AH! I love making so much food and having leftovers waiting for me in the fridge. I think the best meal, even better than its original, is left over popcorn. I love day old popcorn. Either that or left over pizza (but since this whole gluten-free lifestyle has taken over, I’ll spare the cold pizza for a colon healthy lifestyle.) Sometimes, I purposely make too much food so I can have left overs for tomorrow or the next day. 

 

I wish leftovers were good in other areas of life. Left over minutes on a cell phone plan usually don’t roll over. Left over money on a budget is never really spent. Left over hair dye goes unused. Left over players in a dodge ball game see the bench more than the agony of the game. Left overs are only good left in the fridge.

 

See, in relationships, leftovers aren’t really good. It’s what’s left after the original portion has been cut. It’s the piece you really don’t want but will save for a later date whenever ready. Leftovers, though they have a good intent, are not helpful, but they are also hurtful.

 

I’ve never felt like someone’s first choice. I know that sounds like every other book written by some 20-something year old author with good looks and good intentions, but I truly mean it. I have never truly felt like someone’s first choice (I mean, besides for God…). I mean, I was never picked first for basketball games or dodgeball or even for group projects in school. I’ve never been a guy’s first choice without him wanting another part of me in return. I often feel like leftovers.

 

And that’s alright. I don’t have to be everyone’s first choice. I don’t even have to be your choice. But, I want to be someone’s choice. Perhaps I am, but clearly, I sit here, sipping on leftover coffee, wondering why I often feel so leftover.

 

I’ll tell you another thing, leftover words are NEVER healthy. I often find myself making up scenarios in my head where I could tell that person exactly what’s on my mind and my heart. I have these leftover feelings and heartaches that are eroding me from myself. These left over words have divorced me from vulnerability. I replay these words, these conversations, and it leaves me upset and wearisome. I think about what I could have or should have done. I wish I could go to those people and say all these leftover words..

 

… but these words are all toxic, as leftovers can be. 

 

Words have an expiration date. Sometimes, it’s too late to say I love you. It’s too late to say, “Try harder.” It’s too late to say, “You’re going to hurt me,” even when those red flags show their head. Yet, the sting and poison of a leftover word is fatal. I’ve been burned far too many times by leftover words like, “We didn’t really want you to come anyway,” or, “I didn’t want to say anything, but he’s a real douchebag.”

 

I have all these leftover thoughts I want to say to specific people. These thoughts I want to scream from the roof tops to validate my existence. I want someone to hear what I have to say and not be pushed aside to some random post or blog or book on the shelf. I want you to listen to what I have to say for once instead of you shoving your face into your life because it’s better than mine. I want to be heard, and you are just NOT listening.

 

Leftovers are fun in theory, but they’re never good. So, I sit here with words I could have said. I sit here with words I want to say. I have to put them somewhere, but for now, these leftover words fester my heart and poison my OTHER words with deceit, malice, and shame. My heart is a bit lost and confused waiting for someone with passion to love it. 

 

I am waiting to be someone’s first pick. I am waiting to be in that starting lineup. I’m waiting to be MVP, first draft pick, multimillion dollar winner. I am waiting to actually win.

 

However, in the meantime, it’s leftovers or nothing. Do I choose to feel nothing or to feel the leftovers corroding my thoughts and leave me unresponsive to my hearts call. Where did my passion go? Oh, it’s in yesterday’s leftovers.

 

 

 

73:365

So, today, I had my first panic attack.

I’ve never understood them. I never understood why they happened. I never understood what they felt like more than what I read in health books. But I sat there… looking at my bank account going “Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit!” because I am going to have an EXTRA car payment I didn’t plan for and know I shouldn’t have gone out to eat or joined a gym or bought food. I don’t know.

Then, it hit me.

2013 has been the year of trust. I have to trust that God will take care of things and that fate will fall into place. I have to. Whether or not I’m “mad” at God still, life happens. I have to learn to cope with that fate… that life. In my mess, I started to cry.

I’ve never dealt with rejection well. Today, of all days, I just started thinking of how I broke up with my ex boyfriend and now, people associated with him and his friends, delete me and talk behind MY back. I don’t understand shady people like that. I don’t understand why people are mean to me when I haven’t even thought a mean thing about them.

Ya know, I would get it… I would get why someone would hate me. I get why people can hate me. I’m loud. I’m obnoxious. I speak my mind. I stand up for what I believe in. I screw up. I’m not perfect. I am good at what I do….

but then, that hit me, too.

What if this whole perception of myself is all a lie?

What if I’m not as cool or awesome or hip or nice as I think I am??? What if I’m just… lame?

I try really hard… and am often misunderstood.

I don’t know how to explain myself OFF the page. I write so I can figure myself out. When I speak, words seem to get confused. I lose myself in my hair twirling or the crack in the wall. Writing… Writing makes sense.

Sitting alone, at home, with my cat, eating ice cream, and watching Grey’s Anatomy, I realized…. I am just like everyone else… yet, I am not like anyone else because I am on my own journey.

This path I’m on others hit earlier and later in life. This path I’m on is my own…. I go slow. I go fast. I skip parts… I repeat parts. But, this path… this is my own.

So, as I glance at mile-marker 300 for the millionth time wondering why people don’t like me, I have to remember to keep going towards my goal. I can’t stop on the side of the road to cry and wonder why someone doesn’t like me or why my boss doesn’t think I’m a good teacher… or why I feel so alone.

I have to press the gas and go.

I can’t let my demons on my journey… because that’s a distraction.

No.

This is my year.

Somehow… I’ll figure out where I am going.

69:365

The worst feeling in the world is feeling like you’re somehow not enough. Whether you’re at your job or in a relationship. There is nothing worse than trying failing.

I fail at a lot of things.

But, I don’t like to admit that I am a failure. I don’t like to admit that I am not the best at anything. I want to be the best. I want everyone to know I am the best. I want to be better than everyone.

Then, it hit me.

I will never be the best. I will never have it all going on. I will fail. I will make mistakes. At my work, in relationships, in my family, I am going to fall short of greatness. I am not the Michael Jordan of anything. I am just me.

And in this acceptance, I have to figure out HOW I can be okay with being imperfect.

Is anyone actually okay with being… imperfect? I’d like to know when it all stops feeling weird.

In relationships, I tend to be controlling. I tend to drive people, both men an women, away from me. I tend to write people off for NOT being perfect as well. I tend to hurt people more than I help them… I tend to push intimacy away because I’m scared of being pushed away for not being perfect.

 

I wonder….

Do people like me exist… when you see flaws, do you run?

 

Because, when I see my own, I run. I run away. I run from my mistakes. I run from EVERYTHING.

 

I run from my insecurities.

 

Do you?

 

45:365

This morning on a random news feed of blogs I should read, the title, “The First Time We Touched Each Other… Naked.” Immediately, I clicked the link. I am human. Humans are attracted to things that are deemed provocative even if we are saints inside these bodies. I am a human. I like nakedness. I like things that are deemed shameful our vulnerable. I like being naked because I have nothing to hide.

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always been the outlandish I-have-nothing-to-hide uncensored bold girl. I’ve worn leggings as pants before it was a fad. I dyed my hair red before Hayley Williams made it cool. I speak my mind because I’ve never been afraid of myself… well, almost.

I’m afraid of being vulnerable when someone is not willing to be vulnerable back. Those dreams people have about being naked in front of the school are daunting. I’ve never been ashamed of my body or my humanity. However, when someone else keeps their clothes on and shuts their mouth, I instantly cower back in fear. I am afraid of being transparent when someone is not willing to be transparent back.

Last night, while I was supposed to go get Valentines drinks with a friend, a new guy friend I have known for a month, with whom I’ve developed some sort of feelings for, sat in my room and we talked about life. Well, rather, I talked about my life and he listened. However, when I asked him to be specific in his sharing, he shut up.

I turned something off. Minutes later, he left. He walked away after I was unloading my thoughts and feelings. I confessed my deepest secret of all.

It’s not really a secret as much as it’s that no one really needs to know. It’s really no ones business… but it will cause you to judge me. That’s inevitable. Everyone judges everyone… but to think you are better than someone after they bare their soul is hurtful and unforgiving.

My secret: I’m a virgin.

I am beyond open to talk about sexuality. I grew up in such a manner that set me up to be as open as a good novel or an ice cream shop on a hot day. I’m open. I’m ready. I’m willing. But, virginity is a whole other story. There has always been something about sex that has stunted me. It’s something that has held me back, weighed me down, and kicked me in the balls (metaphorically, of course.. because, last I checked, I don’t have balls.)

But why?

In this culture, why is it acceptable to talk about sexuality on television and music and not about virginity? When did being a virgin be deemed so…”dirty?”

I hope to never experience the instant rejection I felt after being transparent as I was last night. I hope this opens up myself to conversations about virginity. Above all, I hope this causes you to get to know me a bit more so we can start a conversation. I want my life to mean something more than just being “that curly red haired girl who can’t seem to lose her V card.” I want it to mean something more.

And I truly hope I sparked some thought in your head today.

Leave a comment!!!

44:365

So, today is Valentines Day.. or should I say, “National Holiday for Chocolate and Crappy Hallmark Cards that Say Something Cliche and Expected and NOT Romantic At All?”

I don’t find myself to be bitter about being single on this glorious Valentines Day of 2013. I don’t feel bitter at all. Yet, I cannot help but feel that pressure in my heart… where I did this to myself time and time again. It’s that pain you know won’t go away by eating a whole box of chocolate or having a bubble bath. It’s a pain that won’t stop even if my status went from “single” to “in a relationship.”

Five years ago, I made an awful mistake. I was 19 years old and I fell for something MUCH younger than me. He never told me his age, but I knew he was not as old as I was. Five years ago, I let him kiss me good night. I let myself fall for him. I let go of the pain from my ex of two years. Five years ago, I realized that there are more fish in the sea. Five years ago, I ruined myself.

This kiss was not just any kiss. It was the kiss of death on my life in Washington State. It was the kiss that got me kicked out of youth group. It was the kiss that made me lose all my friends. It was the kiss that made me feel the dishonor from my parents. It was the kiss of death from my life in my own hometown. Five years ago, I lost my home. I lost my home base. I lost my true north. Five years ago, I kissed my old life goodbye.

That’s hard for me.

When I left Washington to move to NYC for school, I had fun. I made a new name for myself. I was the cool, confident chic girl from Seattle who was funny and had a great heart. I wasn’t the insecure cougar who fell for a 15 year old in Seattle. No one knew I kissed a minor. That’s all I did. Yet, the guilt still hurts to this day.

I’m not sure what the guilt is. I am not sure why I felt guilty.

“It’s was only a kiss, it was only a kiss…”

The truth is: I am insecure. No matter what you think or what you see or what you perceive, I am still insecure. One thing has changed… well, a few things have changed.

Last year, the boy I mentioned dating died from a drug overdose. Although I only kissed him a few times (seriously, that’s it!), I will always have a spot in my heart for what he meant to me and how he changed me. I regret not making peace with him and those around me, but it is far too late for an apology now. So, that changed.

The difference between now and then is that, although I still harbor insecurities and uncertainties, I can chose to live. I have chosen to live this life called “the human experience.” I have chosen to be who I am and not take the bullshit. I have chosen to not wallow in my self-doubt, although it NEVER went anywhere. Insecurities don’t just leave with the snap of the fingers. But, I am choosing to live… because I am documenting the human experience. I am not alone.

I am the human experience.

So, while the chocolate may numb the reality of my heart, I pick myself up, wipe the chocolate from my lips, and say that I am alive. I have made a change. I have become new. I am a new person. EVERY DAY I am a new person as I am a culmination of my choices, right and wrong. And you are, too.

So, Happy Fucking Valentines Day to you. You deserve to be loved and lived and cherished… even if it makes you cry.

26:365

This is apart of my book I’m writing. Enjoy.

 

Seventh grade was a huge turning point for me. That sounds cliche and quiet silly that my whole life would be changed by a single grade or year or whatever. There is no denying it. I changed my life that year. I decided I would play a sport. Now, being bigger than most kids my age (Well, being bigger than any kid any age in my school), most kids would doubt my ability in and out of the gym. Well, I was a force to be reckoned with. I was a beast and knew how to give bloody noses.

I chose basketball that year for my first sport. Originally, I wanted to play volleyball, but, after the incident in choir, I didn’t feel like taking up the sport where my bullies dwelled was a great idea. Basketball was cool. Michael Jordan was cool. In 2000, MJ was rumored to be coming back to basketball. He was my childhood idol and made one of the coolest movies known to man. We still watched Space Jam in our parties after school while dancing on dining room tables and wearing rainbow toe socks. My dreams of becoming “like Mike” were big, and I had big plans to be the first woman to dunk.

At tryout, I was sized up from the beginning. I was the youngest of the young meat. I didn’t really know how to dribble or that I couldn’t stand in the key for more than 5 seconds. All I knew was that I wanted to be apart of a team and wanted to make my parents proud. I wanted to have something in common with my brother and dad. I wanted to be an athlete because that meant I was fit. I wanted something to be apart of me I would never forget. I wanted fame. I wanted the fans. I wanted meaning. 

We ran, sprinted, ran some more, and sprinted some more. We did jumping jacks and squats. We listened to “What is Love?” over and over again as our coach yelled out silly things that didn’t make sense at the time. This was not basketball. This was war. This was my body telling me that it was done. If this is what basketball is, then I do not want it. I do not want it anymore. It is not worth the panting and spitting. 

So, the next day, I was going to quit. We started running and sprinting and dribbling and squatting. We ran to “What is Love?” and ran some more. As we were being dismissed for a quick drink of water, with the beads of sweat dripping down my chin, my thoughts formulated on how I would break it to Coach Gilman that I did not want to be here anymore. How could I formulate my thoughts while my lips were shaking? Just as I was about to open my weary mouth, the basketballs were brought out. That was the moment I fell in love with the basketball. It would not replace the lonely hearts club captivating my tender soul. It would replace the idle times between homework and dinner. It became apart of my soul forever.

I wasn’t the best basketball player at first. I was awkward and annoying and kinetically behind. The thing that set me apart was my heart. My heart was in the game. My heart was in the adventure. And nothing could beat the feeling of making your first basket or committing your first foul. There, I answered what is love? You want to know how?

My first basketball game was the day I realized I could never go back. Our small private school was one of many private schools in the Pacific Northwest that was just like ours but with different school colors and mascots. We all had the same hair cuts, clothes, and similar uniforms. We were equally matched. We went through the first three quarters without much of a fight. Fourth quarter came. I was making lunch dates with the bench I was warming up. I hadn’t even tied my newly bought basketball shoes. That’s when I heard my name. 

“Gilfoy, get down here.”

It was like ring woken up from a dream. Except, the only difference, this was a basketball game and I was about to make my seventh grade debut. And I was about to miss my chance. I tripped over my shoes on my way to the court. I had no idea which side the basket was. I forgot what I was doing. As I was running on the court, shoes untied, gravity got the best of me. Instead of falling forward, I fell backwards and on another girl. Before the clock had even started, I had taken out the center of their junior high basketball team. She screamed and started bleeding from the nose. I broke her nose. I broke her nose before I was even in the books. I broke a girl’s nose I didn’t even know. And I felt so accomplished. The ref didn’t know what to do. So, I played. I missed my one shot, but I didn’t care. I broke a girl’s nose. It was awesome.

Basketball became my first love. And eventually, it would hurt me, hurt me, more and more.

24:365

I want to post more photos. I feel that photos, especially portraits, say more than what I can say in words… however, they are never straight forward and take some honest study. I wonder what people will say of this blog or my life when it’s all over. Will they say I lived? Will they say I did much? Will they be impressed? Will I just be cast aside? I don’t know. Perhaps I think too much about what others will say about me more than I should just BE me.

 

What does this photo say about me?