Taking A Back Seat

When you’re the fattest person in the room.

One Holding Small One | Joy Brown Sculptor

The other night, I was in a story slam.

One of the other storytellers shared a piece that included a joke involving a 300-pound woman giving a man a spanking. It was supposed to scare him. Why did that detail need a 300-pound woman to make it funny? The audience laughed and I sat in my chair (on the stage, waiting for my turn), triggered, angry, and feeling enormous shame. I also had one of those moments when I was flooded with righteous indignation. I sat there fuming. I fantasized about contacting her, asking her why using a fat person as the punchline was acceptable? She, of course, was in a slim body. I took a quick mental survey of the storytellers that night. I was the fattest person among the 18 storytellers on the program.

While she was telling her story, these were my thoughts: I was going to EDUCATE her. I was going to ENLIGHTEN her. I would make her face her internalized fat phobia. But how would I do it? Facebook? Find her email address and write her a real scather? Embarrass her in public? I’ve got a vivid imagination when it comes to plotting revenge and rehabilitation. I run scripts in my head. Thankfully, that’s mostly where all these great ideas stay. That’s where they belong, until I can heal enough to stop writing the scripts. Conjuring thoughts of payback only gives me temporary relief, serving as a distraction until I get where I really need to go. Those thoughts? They don’t reflect who I truly am. They only point to how much work I still need to do. Beginning with, but not exclusive to dealing with my own internalized fat phobia.

Her story was 4 minutes long. That 4 minutes took forever to live through. I kept checking in to make sure that my facial expressions were firmly in neutral. It’s the best I could summon. I was incapable of faking a smile.

I spiraled to those old familiar places called self-loathing and shame. In this slam, all the storytellers in the act sit in two rows of chairs on the stage so that they can easily get to the mic when it’s their turn. I choose to sit in the back row whenever I participate in this slam. I once saw myself in a photo from a previous slam when I was seated up front. I was horrified at what I saw. I had no idea.

So, I made sure to hide the next time by taking a back seat.

I sat in the back row, feeling exposed, wondering if people were looking at me. I thought about fat-shaming. I’ve defended the former president––hard to call him that, but I won’t write his name––when people on social media used the word “fat” as an insult, a way to judge his character. I challenge people often when that comes up. It’s not okay. Fat is a descriptor, it’s not a personality trait.

After my internal roil, the stages of rage, the implosion of shame, I turned back to myself, remembering that when I get triggered, it’s a message to heed. A wake-up call. There’s something for me to examine, to take responsibility for. It’s a reminder that there’s a hurt little girl who sometimes takes over when she really needs soothing and to hear from me that she’s safe.

My story was okay, but my delivery was off that night because I was so rattled, so self-conscious. A friend offered to record me telling my story. I said he could if he shot me from the chest up, explaining that I don’t like the way I look because of my size. He sent me the video after the show. I haven’t watched it yet. I may never.

Over the next couple of days, I took an emotional inventory to check in about how my recovery is going, because I know there are things I need to address:

• What have I been avoiding?

• What don’t I want to own?

• What am I still unwilling to do?

• Am I handing this over to my higher power?

• Am I still trying to be in control?

• Am I reaching out to fellows in program and to my sponsor for support?

• Am I remembering that recovery is a long game?

I thought about the full-length mirror that fronts the beautiful antique armoire in my bedroom. The mirror that I rarely use to look at all of me, even with clothing on. I hate having my picture taken, unless it’s by my friend who’s a brilliant portrait photographer, but even those pix? No full body. Chest up, only.

Forget about looking at all of me naked. That one’s way too hard right now.

In my 12 Step program––unlike the other one I’ve tried––the guidelines recommend that we not weigh, measure, or track anything. No weighing ourselves or our food, no measuring ourselves or quantities of food. No tracking weight, exercise, or calories. We are encouraged to either hide or throw away our scales.

We avoid these actions because the point of this work is to find balance. Balance with food and balance within. The philosophy makes so much sense to me. When I diet, I don’t trust myself, I don’t learn to listen to my body. I obsess. I think about food all the time, I think about weight all the time. I think if I only weighed “so and so” then everything would be okay. I know that’s not true. That’s not what recovery from an eating disorder is about. Unlike alcoholics who abstain from drinking, those of us with disordered eating can’t abstain from food, but we can make healthy choices. Recovery is about letting go, telling the truth, and showing up for ourselves and one another. It’s about loving ourselves just as we are. I’m not there yet.

When I was in my twenties, I tipped toward anorexia. I got very, very thin. Too thin. I loved shopping for clothing (I hate shopping for clothing), and I loved looking in the mirror. In the years when I was being a thin person with an eating disorder, I was nearly an exhibitionist, I liked showing my body off so much. I worked as an artist’s model (nude), I taught yoga, wearing skin-tight leggings and sports bras. I felt powerful and strong. I was powerful and strong, but I didn’t love myself then, either. I smoked like a fiend thinking it would keep me from eating. Smoking was just another avenue to tamping my feelings.

When I moved away from that thin body and got some distance, I looked at old photos. I saw in me a young woman who was way too thin. It was shocking. Body dysmorphia occupies a broad spectrum. I don’t see myself clearly. When people tell me I’m beautiful, that I’m “luscious,” I don’t know what to do with that other than doubt their words. I would hazard a guess that there are people who see the Nan I really am more clearly than I see myself. But I need to see her, too. That’s the work.

I do know that I’m quite fat. I know roughly what I weigh. I know that I don’t take care of myself as well as I could. I barely exercise. I need to do that more. I need to keep going to meetings. I need to talk about deeper feelings. I need to keep unpeeling the layers of dysfunction so that the real Nan can take center stage. I need to love that little kid inside who is so much a part of me, that frightened, tender girl.

Just like at the slam, I’ve taken a back seat too many times in my life and not just when hiding my physical self. I want to sit in the front row more often, but sometimes an unoccupied back seat is what I need more, and giving myself permission to sit there is also a form of self-love. Living fully, out loud and in full view, may just take some more time.

One Holding Small One, another angle | Joy Brown, sculptor

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