In my house growing up, we couldn’t even refer to “passing gas,” let alone say “fart.” My mother allowed that people occasionally burped, but scatalogical references were right out. Which is hilarious in retrospect, because we had horses, and horses definitely fart.
I suppose it must have been her WASP upbringing in a suburb of Washington, D.C. to a family that considered itself upper class, even if they weren’t part of the ultra wealthy. She was brought up to believe that class was not about money, but about education and behavior. If your manners were impeccable—and manners included treating every person with respect—you could call yourself upper class.
So until this blog, I generally did not speak or write about my body, or bodies in general, very much. And if I did, it was through metaphor, in my poetry. But bodies, I have learned, are political. Black people in the United States have always known that, of course. Feminists know that as well. And so when I quail at the thought of sharing details of my weight loss and health-seeking journey, I tell myself that my words could help others: women and men who must navigate the treacherous waters of cultural judgment about the size, shape, and appearance of their bodies.
In just about a month, I have lost five pounds. I’m still over 200 pounds, but not by much; that round number was the one that sent me into despair. In college I was 140, and no, I don’t expect to get down to that weight now, in my mid-50s. I guess I’m hoping for about 175, which will still be overweight, but I will hopefully be able to fit into the upper sizes of “regular” women’s clothes rather than being relegated to the lack of selection in the plus size section. I carry my weight in the upper half of my body, which makes me an inverted triangle with a tendency towards apple shape, to use that outdated terminology. Oh, and I’m 5’6”.
I’m also an inveterate sweet tooth. In the past month, though the low dose of Ozempic has curbed my appetite some and the gastrointestinal side effects have made small meals less painful, I’ve still eaten sweets. Tate’s Bake Shop makes gluten-free cookies that are actually good, and I bought some popsicle molds because I read somewhere that citric acid, an ingredient in tons of store-bought food, can contribute to fatigue. So far the watermelon-lemon-mint popsicles weren’t great, but the mint chocolate ones were. I’ve felt guilty for my sweet addiction for over thirty years, knowing that sugar contributes to inflammation, which may well contribute to my health problems.
But sweets give me something I’ve so far found essential: a little body pleasure on a daily basis. Whenever I’m awake—and that includes when I wake up at night—the primary awareness I have of my body is pain and/or fatigue. Because of this, I lean heavily into the mind/body dichotomy, often thinking of my body as merely the chipped, cracked glass into which my real self is poured. Even meditation can be difficult, as the guide tells me to be aware of my body, starting at my toes (burning, stinging, restless) moving up through my legs (knees aching from the gardening I did yesterday or just because I slept oddly) and settling my attention on the breath (can’t breathe through my nose, cough at the back of my throat in allergy season).
So for the minute during which I’m savoring a chunk of English Cadbury chocolate, the flavor coating my tastebuds like silk, I’m grateful to be having a physical experience that doesn’t hurt. For that brief time, I’m embodied, whole.
Embarrassing Bodies
It broke my heart and also flooded me with understanding when you said that sugar is the one bodily pleasure you reach for. I understand better now.
One of the things I did early on in this journey was to start to build a “Pleasure Chest” - a written and drawn list of activities that give me joy or pleasure. I had 5 minute things like petting a cat or brushing my hair, and 15 minute things like listening to music I love or doing a quick sketch, 30 minute things etc.
I found that having a pre-made list helped me choose something other than coffee or sugar when I felt low. And for the most part, it works.
This is just an idea to play with - maybe you just need a pleasure chest so you don’t reach for a pleasure every time (nothing needs to be 100%) that may keep you locked in the pain cycle.
Wanted to share something that worked for me that might help. Plus, more pleasure can’t hurt! :)