Before I started healing from my complex PTSD,
I began each new year with just one thing on my mind, fat.
After weeks of holiday overindulgence, I would stand on the cold bathroom tile in my bare feet. Gingerly stepping onto the scale, I put every ounce of my energy into eradicating just one thing. Fat.
I could barely see the number through my tears, but I already knew.
I was fat.
My inner monologue seethed with anger, bubbling up from just beneath the surface, threatening to overtake my being.
“Fat, just like your mother!”
“ You are disgusting and weak!”
“ How can anyone even look at you?”
That broken record has been playing in my mind for as long as I can remember.
EMDR is a strange and wonderful therapy.
Using my own eyes, thoughts, and emotions, I was able to process and come to terms with 26 adverse childhood memories, with the guidance of my therapist.
Amazingly, during that process, I revealed even more truths buried within each of those 26 recollections. Attached to each memory was a false belief about myself. Those false beliefs fueled my self destructive actions, and continue to plague me with insecurities and self doubt.
So many wires to untangle in my brain!
After 3 years of therapy, I am finally beginning to see a clearer picture of who I really am.
I am not fat, disgusting, or weak.
I am a beautiful survivor of childhood trauma.
***
“And I said to my body softly, ‘I want to be your friend.’ It took a long breath and replied, ‘I have been waiting my whole life for this!’
Nayyirah Waheed – Author/Poet
***
The beads of sweat on my upper lip tasted salty, just like my tears.
Throughout my childhood, it seemed I was always sweating or crying about something. Displaying my emotions, especially the unpleasant ones, was rarely tolerated, often punished.
I had to learn to hide my emotions to survive.
Unfortunately for me, I was never successful at obeying the frequent commands of, “Wipe that look off your face,” and “Stop crying or I will give you something to cry about.”
Ironically, this gave me more to cry about.
If anyone asked about the welts, bumps and bruises that appeared frequently on my small body, my injuries were explained away. I was so clumsy.
One of my nicknames was Grace.
Most summer mornings we were told to go outside and play. If it was a good day, we’d have a jug of Kool-Aid or a bag of peanut butter sandwiches to take with us for the day. Otherwise, the four of us kids would roam the neighborhood, stripping trees of whatever fruit we could find.
My mind still recalls which yard had the sweetest tangerines. I remember a giant mulberry tree we passed on our mile long walk to school. We started out eating the dark purple ones. Ripe, sweet and juicy.
When they were gone, we’d strip the massive tree of the red fruit.
They were still good, not as juicy, a little sour. Eventually, towards the end of the school year, there was nothing left on the massive tree but sour green berries.
We were so hungry, we ate them too, even though it meant a stomach ache later.
Every weekend our family would go fishing. We all learned how to bait a hook, cast a fishing pole, and clean a fish.
What we caught was dinner.
There were sheep heads, amber jacks, perch, croakers and pompano.
My personal favorite was the puffer fish. It tastes like chicken.
It wasn’t until decades later that I discovered puffer fish contain a neurotoxin that can be potentially fatal.
***
“We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty .”
Mother Theresa
***
As the years passed, my weight would fluctuate, like my self image.
Babies, holiday excess. Stress, triggers. Vows of change. Promises of discipline. Temporary success, followed by the inevitable return to the comfort of numbness.
I did what I had to do to be acceptable.
The show must go on!
Nobody likes a fat singer.
Girdles, extreme exercise, crazy diets.
Still, no matter what methods, I was never completely happy with my reflection in the mirror.
That was the underlying theme of my life.
As is, I was not good enough.
The badass bitch stage persona I projected for years was created to protect my fragile heart.
I used high heels to intimidate potential predators.
Lower necklines and mini skirts were intended to freeze stalkers in their tracks.
This persistent illusion gave me a false sense of security, a feeling of control and superiority. In my imagination I was bulletproof. Sexiness was my weapon.
Fortifying myself with drugs and alcohol, I maintained my self deception for three decades.
Then I got sober.
At the beginning of my recovery, the ice was thin and I was afraid to move. Then something miraculous happened.
The past melted away, revealing everything.
Rather than look away, I decided to take it all in.
I started to believe I could succeed.
That’s when I took those first tentative steps towards the real me.
Like a toddler wobbling, eyes wide open, arms outstretched, giddy with excitement.
Then, I fell down.
The thing people don’t tell you about sobriety is that it’s nothing like the movies. Your life does not become perfect overnight. In fact, it gets worse before it gets better.
All of those words, unspoken. Feelings, unfelt. So many things to repair.
Now, my new job is understanding and learning to love each and every part of me. The fat parts. The wrinkly bits. The previously unacceptable.
The hungry little girl, the drunken singing mother. The healing middle aged woman fighting for her dreams.
It’s the most important work I’ve ever done.
Some days, like today, I want to call in sick.
That’s ok. Healing is hard work.
***
“Love yourself, enough to take the actions required for your happiness, enough to cut yourself loose from the drama filled past, Enough to set a high standard for relationships, I have to feed your mind and body in a healthy manner. Enough to forgive yourself. Enough to move on.”
Steve Maraboli – Author
***
So, today, I’ll take a day off from trauma. I’ll take care of me. Paint a fence panel. Snuggle my cat. Take a bubble bath.
This is my new way of life.
This is recovery.
Naome Bradshaw
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