My Brain is Wrong

I know that I post a lot of ‘motivational’ things on my Facebook wall. I know that sometimes it can be a bit annoying. While it may seem that I am sometimes preachy or filled with rhetoric, I’ve come to realize that the only person I’m preaching to is myself. You see, my brain tells me things. My brain tells me that life is hard, that people are hard, that the world is hard. My brain assigns labels to things telling me this is good and that is bad. It assigns labels to people, pigeonholing them in convenient little boxes. My brain tells me that in the end we all die, so there is no point. My brain teaches me about fear–fear that looms like a wave, waiting for the right time to ebb into high-tide. My brain tells me that I came into this world alone, that I will leave it alone and that I will live it alone. My brain spews the lessons that it has learned in life, telling me that decisions were mistakes, that relationships were make-believe and that dreams are just imaginary forms of escape. My brain sits in the corner like the pious, judgmental church lady condemning everyone including herself, purse-lipped, wrinkled and filled with disdain.
But, my heart, well, yeah that’s a different story. You see, my heart, it never learned any of those lessons that my brain dwells on. My heart believes in fairy tales. It believes in laughing until you cry. It believes in love without condition or labels. It tells me that I can fly in ways my brain cannot see. It whispers quietly while the brain sleeps telling me that not only can I, but that I must love and allow myself to be loved. It tells me that dreams are a beautiful thing. My heart is a bare-footed little girl with crooked pigtails and scabby knees. Her gapped-tooth grin is almost as crooked as her pigtails and freckles dot her rosy cheeks. She jumps in mud-puddles and blows the little fairy-brooms from dandelions. She kisses kittens on the nose and chases lightening bugs in the twilight hours. She believes in first kisses and laughter. She believes in dreaming and of being dreamed. When a decision does not have the expected outcome, she kind of thinks, “Well, huh, that was cool.” She has faith in life, in people and in herself. She also thinks my brain is a big ol’ bully. So she sneaks around and posts motivational stuff, to remind my brain that it is wrong and maybe to remind a few other bully brains out there of the same.


Something Odd

My youngest daughter and I went grocery shopping for a few things over the weekend and I noticed something.  As she and I went walking down the ice-cream isle, I walked with my back straight and making  eye-contact with other people.  Which, honestly, is not that odd.  Unless one is like me and always walked down that isle as if I were doing something wrong.

I’ve always been one to bemoan and wail the fact that fat people are just as much people as skinny people.  That everyone is beautiful, etc, etc, etc…  I also am one to say often that someone’s ACTIONS speak much louder than their words.   So, what have my actions been saying?  Apparently my actions have been saying a lot about how I see myself below the mental mask of equality I wear.  I walked with shame down the ice cream and chip and cookie isles because I felt as if I were doing something wrong.  I avoided eye contact because of that guilt thinking, “of course fatty is in this isle” as if being fat makes the fact that I love pralines and caramel ice cream wrong.  Over the weekend I noticed I made eye contact with others, and thought to myself, “Why?”  The only answer I can think of is that I am actually doing something about this weight.  I am no longer being a victim of my own design.  That I am being proactive in my health and treating myself like someone who deserves to be treated well.

Another thing that I’ve noticed about my actions is that I wear clothes that are generally lose fitting and/or way to big.  I don’t think I own a single provocative outfit, which is kind of a waste because like most big girls, I’m pretty large-chested.  And why….why do I do this?  It’s not because these clothes are cheaper, heck, the bigger ya go, the more they cost.  It’s not because they are flattering, I mean really, the only famous person that wore a muumuu was Mrs. Roper and we all know how many times SHE got laid.  So, really, why?  Why do I wear baggy clothes and stare at my feet when I walk down the ice cream isle all the while decrying fat inequality?  Is it because I am ashamed of being fat, or because I’m ashamed of not caring about myself, or not treating myself as I would someone else, or something else I haven’t thought of?