I only judge myself, I am not judging you

“My Love Hate Relationship with My Body” series Part 1 and Part 2

I have written about my body image and my fucked up view of my weight.  I want to make some things very clear.  When I stood on that scale and it said 160, to me I was fat.  Very fat.  Horribly unhappily fat.  I want it very clear that the only person I judge is me.  If you weigh 160 I do not in any way think you’re fat.  Miss Banshee, in her Weight of the World post, put it perfectly when she said “To me, everyone else, EVERYONE else looks…right. The way they’re supposed to. Whatever weight they are. Perfectly normal and fine. Everyone but the image in the mirror. That one’s a freak”

Body dysmorphic disorder. My sister has admitted to having serious body image issues to some degree.  I will admit to having this same disorder to the Nth degree.  I don’t know where either of us get it.  (In an email to me, when I asked her this question, she is able to explain to me exactly why she feels this way.  I wish I was so self aware and insightful.) I don’t remember specific incidents that would have cause it. I remember, when I was a teen, wearing the latest fashion, which was short shorts (like up to my hoo-ha short) and half shirts.  Bare mid-drifts were the fashion in the 80’s.  (thanks Madonna)  And like most teen girls just discovering their sexuality and the power their bodies have over the boys, I dressed to show off the most skin.  My Dad didn’t like it.  What father would?  Compound that with the fact that he was a preacher, and had an image to maintain, I was an embarrassment.  I probably should have been embarrassed if I had any common sense.  But even then, the comments he did make were more about the fact that even when I was dressed, I wasn’t really dressed.  It never had to do with my body.

From the day I sat in the bathtub beside my BFTS Debbie, I have hated my thighs.  I haven’t always acted on that hate, but I have always thought my thighs were too big.  Ever since my high school friend commented on my flat stomach, I have been hyper aware of my stomach.  There were many nights I would lay in bed and if my hip bones didn’t protrude above my stomach by 2 inches, I worried.  If my stomach wasn’t hollowed out, I would worry I was getting fat.

My body turned 40 a couple of years ago.  And with that momentous birthday came a changing of the guard.  The weight that was all too easy to pack on thanks to cheesecake, margaritas, and pasta three nights a week, now stubbornly clings and refuses to budge or leave.  That’s not true.  The first 30 fell away pretty easily once I eliminated the cheesecake, the artery clogging Sunday morning brunches, Saturday afternoon lunches at Applebee’s, and the weekends full of margaritas or rum and coke.  Add to that the stress of the break-up, and it’s surprising 30 pounds is all I lost.  It should have been more.

But here I am, still not happy with the image in the mirror. Summer is right outside my door, and right now none of my shorts or skirts fit. But, I am determined I will not spend this summer in jeans and a frumpy old woman’s swimsuit.  This time? I’m going to do something about it.  The right way.

Owning my shit on the responsibility pendulum

My girl Britt wrote a blog post this week about the meaning of life according to her*. While I don’t exactly agree she’s got the complete complex meaning of life figured out, she does have a good grip on it.

Responsibility.

Or as I like to say, owning your shit.

I spent a great deal of my life on the no responsibility end of the spectrum where everything in my life that was wrong was a direct result of someone else’s actions. My marriage was a wreck because he was an asshole (ok, maybe that is mostly true). My life was a mess because well, because he was an asshole. We were always broke because, well, you get the point. I always picked the wrong men because my childhood sucked because my dad was… you guessed it, an asshole. (See a trend here?) I slept with guys looking for love I never got from my father.

Then I was diagnosed bipolar and bam I had a new scapegoat. My life was a mess because I made bad choices but it wasn’t my fault it was typical BPD behavior. I lied because I had BPD. I threw temper tantrums because I had BPD. I went on shopping sprees I could ill afford and didn’t pay my rent because I had BPD. I left my mother hanging with my debt because I had BPD. I had sex with men because I had BPD. Again, not my fault.

Did I ever swing to the other end of the spectrum? Oh hell to the yeah I did. I took responsibility for everything that was wrong in my relationship with Brian. His need to date other people was a direct result of me not being a good enough girlfriend. Every time he needed a break it was somehow my fault. Everything that was wrong with us was really what was wrong with me.

The only way to change this cycle was to change the one thing I could. Me. I couldn’t change their behavior. I couldn’t change what they thought, felt or believed. I learned to think “Just because they believe it doesn’t make it true.” I had to own my shit and make choices about my behavior. I had to choose to not give in to the BPD desires and *ahem* be responsible.

I learned that when the girls’ dad would call looking for a fight the answer wasn’t to fight back and get into a manic shouting match over the phone. The answer was to be the responsible one and as “What exactly is it you need me to do to make this right for you?”

I learned that just because I had the money in my pocket doesn’t mean I should spend it. Rent is due, pay it. I now ask myself “Is this a manic impulse, or is this a responsible choice to be making with my money?” (Sometimes I tell that voice in my head to shut the hell up and own her own damn shit.)

The meaning of life is, responsibility, owning my shit. Changing what I can, accepting what I can’t. Asking the hard questions.

And being grown enough to answer them.

Beyond asking the questions and owning up to my shit, I had to acknowledge that my choices, my actions had caused great pain in other people and I needed to own that too.  I had to apologize to them.  I couldn’t undo the things I’d done and said. I couldn’t take back the way I had behaved.  I couldn’t heal the hurt, but I could own my actions and take responsibility for myself.

Jail Chronicles, Chapter 10

DAY FOUR: FRIDAY

I never dreamed I’d be in jail overnight, let alone for four days/nights. There is a part of me that holds out hope I’ll get a miracle today. It’s Friday, surely nobody out there will let me spend a weekend in jail. It’s like I am mentally drawing lines in the sand. Unfortunately, they keep crossing them, and I spend another day, another night, in a place I never thought I’d be.

The realist in me knows nobody is doing anything to get me out. And really, why should they? God isn’t listening to my prayers, why should anyone I know do a damn thing for me? I’m not worth it. Look where I am. I am now a common criminal. And let’s face it. I am a criminal. Still I pray, “Lord, I want to go home.”

Nobody hears me.

DAY FIVE: SATURDAY

My first weekend and while the days are all basically the same (eat-sleep-watch TV-read-play cards) weekends still ‘feel’ different.

I have gone from fear, to acceptance, to just done. I no longer care what is on TV. I can’t focus enough to read a book.

Nobody outside is doing anything so I’ve got to save myself, limited as I am. I have started sending notes to the Public Defender’s (known inside as the Public Pretender) Office, asking questions. I have already filled out the application for representation.

Here, the men occupy Pods A-F, leaving only G-Pod for the women. They do not segregate city, county, state, fed, misdemeanor from felony. This is home for some, for other’s it’s a lay over on their way to bigger places (read prison). Never once have I heard the words “I miss my family” or “I want to go home” come out of their mouths.

Today I prayed “Let me go home. I can do nothing for these girls in here. I can do so much more for them outside.” Pretty stupid prayer actually. But I’m ready to go home and I want to go home today.

Weekends are spent trying to sleep it away. Even though we have not seen the sun since we got in here, we are all glad the windows are painted. Seeing the sunshine would make time too hard. I notice it is no longer ‘they’ and ‘me’, it is now ‘we’. I have already accepted I am one of them. No matter how desperately I want to go home I have already assimilated to life on the inside and become ‘one of them’.

I cry every morning. Panic attacks at the thought of my life ‘out there’. Falling apart and every day in here I am helpless to stop it. I am here by my own hands. I didn’t double check dates. I missed court dates and here I sit. I am not allowed my medication while I am here, so on top of everything else I am fighting the mood swings and trying to keep it all together.

I am bargaining with god now. “If I admit that I screwed up, can I go home? If I promise to read my Bible and pray every day, can I go home? If I promise to bring the girls up in the church? If we go every. Single. Week?

I begin to realize that the only way to get through the days, such as they are, is to just be in the moment. Thinking about my girls, or about Batman, is more than I can stand. Speaking of Batman, I’m not even sure he’ll be there for me when I get out. I don’t know if he’ll even talk to me. I have no idea what I have or haven’t lost. Do I have a job still? A boyfriend? A home? My girls? A life?

One of the favorite topics of conversation is what we miss most. What is the first thing we’re going to do when we get out. I want real coffee, with cream and sugar. Instant decaf is a joke. A fountain soda. Most want a smoke. We don’t play this game long. Some of the girls in here are months and even years away from any of that. Besides, what exactly is the point in dreaming of things you can’t have?

I’ve made it through my first Friday and Saturday in jail. Just a few more nights and I will have survived a week. I am not proud of this. I would have never believed it possible.

Tomorrow is Sunday. Visitation Day.

Jail Chronicles, Chapter 9

I want to go home. 30 miles from home right now, and it might as well be China. I want a shower, a warm private shower. I want to sleep in a bed with sheets and a pillow or two. No lights, no slamming doors, no popping locks, no crazy drunks, no ringing phones. I want to brush my teeth, shave my legs. I want to see the sun, hug my kids, and drink real coffee. I want my freedom.

Due to the clearing house, booking was busy all damn night. I’m not sure I slept, but I know for sure I didn’t dream.

Breakfast my first morning in Lincoln County is biscuits & gravy, normal one of my favorites. I’m not sure exactly what this stuff is, but b’s&g’s it ain’t. I can’t eat. I want to go home, I want real food. I drank the milk before it got warm. I know I’m losing at weight. At 5′ 7″ 115 lbs, I have precious little to lose. I don’t care.

After breakfast, a shower, and another strip search. No avoiding the shower this time. No point in it. My booking picture has been taken, who am I going to impress in here? The strip search doesn’t even faze me, I don’t care. I have no dignity left. At least the people here are familiar. I’m not proud to say I’ve been here a time or two before. Never over night and never in the back in general population, but still. Here. This shower is hot, and alone, and behind a locked door. The last small bit of privacy I’ll enjoy for who knows how long. I enjoy the hot water, and the soap feels/smells good. Washes the jail funk off of me, in preparation for more. I know that once I’m done here, my fashionable orange ensemble is waiting for me.

My bra is taken, along with my underware. They don’t allow any color other than white, and they don’t allow underwires. I’ll remember that next time. Only white underneath any time I have to go to court. Just in case. *sigh* why does there have to be a ‘just in case’?

I’m given my property tote and taken back to G-pod. There is no sneaking in under the cover of night. I will have to walk in this time in full view of everyone there. I feel like fresh meat. I walk up the stairs to my assigned cell. I’m last one in (already three girls assigned to this cell) so I am left with the very top bunk. Which is all of 12 inches from the ceiling. Even as thin as I am, I’m not sleeping up there. I’ve got all day to figure out the alternative. For now, set my stuff down and don’t wake the natives. No point in pissing off the roomies 5 minutes after walking in.

The rules are different here. The remote, stays in the pod, we have control. The cells are not locked down at night. We are free to roam 24 hours. I look around, take in all in, watch and learn.

My cellies (I learn the lingo quick) wake for lunch and Sarah explains we can get a ‘boat’ for my mattress and I can sleep on the floor. Floor beats ceiling any day of the week.

As the day wears on more girls come out of their cells to the day room. The atmosphere is much like a college dorm. Hanging out in each other’s cells, listening to the radio, playing scrabble or spades, braiding each other’s hair, writing letters, watching television.

Home sweet home.

Jail Chronicles, Chapter 8

I am allowed to change back into my clothes, alone in the bathroom. You’re searched when you enter to be sure you’re not smuggling anything in. I guess they figure you’re not interested in taking anything out with you so what’s the point? I’m changing clothes, and there is my cell phone. I am tempted to turn it on and check for text messages, but they are rushing me and I’m afraid of what would happen if they caught me. I need to stay on their good side, and hope that by doing that, they relax some of the rules for me. It’s the only thing that makes any of this bearable.

For the first time since I arrived, I am cuffed. I am lead out to the transport van where I will be put in the seat closest to the front, and I’ll be there alone. Being the only girl sometimes has it’s advantages. There is one more inmate traveling with me, a male. His eyes light up with interest when he sees me. Oh fuck, give me a break. “Welcome to your chauffer driven Limo” he says. Of great, an inmate who thinks he’s a comedian. I am so not in the mood. So, I tell him, “You forgot the Champaign and caviar. You’re fired, don’t talk to me.” He doesn’t.

I know when I get to Lincoln Co I will be taken into booking first. At least there it’s familiar ground. That’s home turf. Richie Rich will have to cool his jets outside. What I didn’t know going into booking was that there had been 60+ people through court that day and 90% of them had been OR’d (own recog) or had bonds reduced to $100. Everyone in jail was bonding out. Booking was a madhouse of paperwork and releasing inmates. I had to wait until they had time for me. I was perfectly ok with that. As long as I stayed quiet and out of the way, they let me sit and wait and I could enjoy the show in relative freedom (not in a holding cell).

Four hours later I’m booked in and allowed to use my cell phone. I call to see if there is any luck on collecting bail money. There is none. I’m going to be sitting for a while. I call Brian. He knows where I am now and he knows the whole ugly truth. He’s been digging deep in casenet and he knows it all. He’s at work and it’s hard to hear normal life going on outside when my life is in limbo inside. He hasn’t bailed on me but he’s mad, he’s disappointed.

I write phone numbers down on a piece of paper. Phone numbers I’ll be able to call collect from the phone in the pod. I’m going in prepared this time. I am booked in, and once again stripped searched. This one is not nearly as humiliating. Maybe because well, I’ve been there done that before, what’s the big deal. I’m put into the holding cell that has barely enough room to change your mind. I grab the last empty bunk, and call it home. I’ve got front and center seats to the booking and release circus. I don’t care. I pray once again, Lord please get me out of this mess. But I doubt my prayers are heard.