Building the Unused Muscle

...One Ugly Incident at a Time

I’ve accepted shrapnel willingly for most of my life. It’s possible that somewhere deep within my DNA circuitry exists the ‘fighting back’ gene, but in the nature-nurture part of the equation, let’s just say I wasn’t primed to express the element of human behavior that is everyone’s birthright.

My early years brought me the reality that shrapnel was as a part of my life as the glass of reconstituted orange juice that awaited me each morning. What set my template in place more than anything wasn’t the school bullying so much as never being defended by my parents - or any other adults. Instead, my sorrow was dismissed and chided because it was I who chose to be fat, so take what you get and keep quiet. Their indifference spoke unfortunate volumes to my subconscious mind and my budding negative self-image commenced fruition.

The lone exception was my beloved German Shepherd, Duchess, who came into my life when I was just two, and that four-legged angel never let me out of her sight whenever I explored the western shores of Lake George, which was often, because the lake was my refuge. Duchess was known for walking protectively between the lake’s lapping waters and me on our expeditions, and also for her readiness to issue fearsome warning growls to strangers who approached. She was the one constant support during my tender years, and I thank God for her benevolent loyalty to this day.

Sitting on a rock - with my rock

But my otherwise rebuke-filled foundation cemented negative and misguided beliefs, as well as peculiarly destructive expectations regarding what I thought I naturally deserved.  Friendships were built on shaky ground at best. Grateful and amazed that anyone showed interest in the first place, I went out of my way to over-give as the attentive and always-on-duty free therapist as well as to over-receive: the mean-girl tactics and micro-aggressions dispensed by purported friends, so I’d remember my place in the pecking order: last, and lucky to have a friend.

In adulthood, I began chipping away at my tear-stained past in therapy in order to both release anger and recalibrate my self-esteem. I also read volumes of self-help books and attended 12-step meetings. And though I did make undeniable progress, the strides were more anemic than I was aware of. Embedded within my closest relationships were a plethora of blind spots. The closer I was to someone, the more shrapnel I blithely absorbed. It was easy to cut an asshole acquaintance loose, but someone who meant something to me? You must be joking! What else is there to do but open wide and take it?

Such was the case circa 2010 when I inexplicably, after years of tipping the scales at 300 pounds +, was in the embryonic stages of becoming a weight-loss success story. This happened the way all miracles do: serendipitously and without an ounce of premeditation. A chance-encounter via a television show put a fitness guru on my radar. I began the program in earnest, he heard through the grapevine I was crushing it and offered, along with one of his disciples, to mentor me. I dropped an astonishing amount of weight through a practical exercise regime and making some do-able (not extreme) changes to food choices. It must have been Divine Will because, unlike all the past attempts at ridding myself of the weight, this time it stuck. And I undeniably couldn’t have done it without their help. I’ve never denied that.

Adept, yet oddly out-of-balance

The duo was proud of me and told me so often…until that fateful day when my local news station got wind of my story and wanted to do a feature.  High on validation, I giddily accepted, and filmed the interview at my local gym, lavishing praise and gratitude on my fitness guru throughout the interview. Cut to the finished product, which I watched breathlessly on my living room TV screen, only to sink into dismay in realizing the station had cut every reference to my guru out - ostensibly, they told me later, to avoid the appearance of promotion. The why didn’t matter; the damage was done. The exercise guru saw the interview online and the stinging rebukes came swiftly and in succession from both of them. Reflexively, I went into blame-taking submission, apologizing profusely for weeks and swearing on stacks of Bibles that I mentioned him throughout the interview. I’d grown to love and care for both guru and disciple in our two years of weekly group phone calls; they were the big brother and sister I never had. Looking back, I opened my boundaries wide, trusted with abandon, and believed what I wanted to believe: that they cared for and respected me, and would naturally be happy that my hometown TV station celebrated my success. The reality was, when push came to shove, I was a commodity – and one who’d failed in her duties. Never mind that I spent two solid years of time and energy promoting his philosophy and products, spent hours online answering emails from advice-seekers, and traveled cross-country at my expense to his expositions and events. All of it was expected, none of it appreciated. There was never a thank you. I, however, thanked him profusely, oblivious once again to the one-sided and non-reciprocal nature of the relationship.

They saw in me the promise of a success story and my needy heart took the bait, even though my gut reminded me regularly of glaring inconsistencies. It was clear where I stood with them over what they harshly deemed as disloyalty and disobedience. What hurt the most was, in spite of my attempts to clarify where I was coming from, they refused to hear me and wouldn’t soften their position even a little.

Instead of expressing the anger that was building up inside of me, I collapsed into self-flagellation, begging forgiveness and even writing a lengthy apology blog on my website. Groveling and prostrating for a spanking was my knee-jerk reaction…again. My apologies were eventually lukewarmly accepted, but they remained distant and emotionally remote for several months to teach me a lesson. Eventually, things blew over and they sought my people-pleasing promotional efforts once again, but it was never the same. I’d seen their true colors and the trust was irrevocably broken.

This was probably one of the last times I actively told my gut to shut the f*&k up. Now, I stop, drop and LISTEN when it sends infallibly valuable messages up from the nether-regions. A mere 14 years ago, at the nearly half-century mark, I was still on my belly, slithering shamefully to the pedestal of the more important, inappropriately asking forgiveness, even as I ignored what I knew was true: that they were disgustingly out of line. I rehash this not to scold myself or reignite resentment, but as a means of solidifying my emotional rehabilitation and standing firm in what is no longer permissible.  

But what’s more important than seeing false friends for who they are is seeing myself more clearly and knowing this: I didn’t deserve any of it. A part of me knew it, but was afraid to respond.  The reality is, no muscles can be flexed where none were built in the first place. This anecdote isn’t about the guru, it’s about self respect and the art of taking it from non-existent to robust. If your gut is telling you something’s wrong, you can be sure something indeed is. Take it from me and all the time and energy wasted not minding the red flags and second-guessing the sirens of truth.  Don’t disrespect yourself and look the other way, whether it’s a boss, a bossy family member, or that friend of yours who’s always insisted on playing the alpha role.  

Am I still bitter? Well, of course! Most of these suppressed feelings didn’t see the light day until recently, and despite what spirituality, self-help, and religious precepts advertise, this type of buried wounding doesn’t just evaporate with the recitation of a mantra or prayer. I manage the mitigation of the buried wounds by working away at it regularly instead of pretending they don’t exist. And there are clear-cut moments when I know it’s time to let it be, when my mind can’t take any more back-and-forth, and resolution seems impossible. It’s all part of the process.

Not surprisingly, my friend-list has shrunk considerably. How could it not, since Grace interceded to awaken my slumbering mind to the unpleasant revelations of my non-existent standards? The slumber was a defense mechanism that has outlived its usefulness. It feels right to have slashed the list, but yet, there are times when I’m wistful about what may have been. Especially when viewing those ubiquitous social media posts that show off scene after joyful scene of friend-group gatherings that are as large as they are raucous. Human nature being what it is, I sometimes shift into compare and contrast mode. This type of social set-up has never been my lot and maybe it doesn’t need to be. Who’s to say what the ‘proper’ friend-count is, or how friends ‘should’ spend their time together? What I value is the comparatively tiny, core group of humans in my life who genuinely care about me and reciprocate the care I show them.  Respect should be an immutable element interwoven into every relationship varietal on the planet. When it’s not, I now see it for what it is: a gaping hole that I won’t excuse.

So here I am, present day: relieved by my lighter load. I’ve got nothing to show off any more, nothing to prove. Aging coupled with autoimmune disease have put the pounds back on and I’m nobody’s role model. The only thing left on my must-do list is to honor both myself, and those who honor me.

Anyone care to make my day?