Camp 4 - Closing Ceremonies.

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So.
After I found out I was home.

Camp 3.

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I ended Day 2 with an adult workshop.
Which was hard.
For a lot of reasons.
None of which were technical.
But thanks camp fam for getting that laptop/dvd up and running :).

The hard bits.
Were the bits.
About my adoptive parents.
And explaining, to some of the most terrific adoptive parents.
About mine.
And my adoptive parents.
Aren't just adoptive.
They are divorced.
And closeted.
And not closeted.
And single.
And together.
And lonely.
And sad.
And they are mommas.
And not.

Camp 2.

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Oh my gracious.
Oh my gracious.
Oh my gracious.

If I could write that as my entire post.
It pretty much describes opening ceremony.
And day one-two of camp.

In fact, as you read today's post, imagine that ticker as my running record.

Camp.

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Okay.
So.
It was like.

School.
And Camp.
And Ballet.

All happened within 12 hours of each other.
And I celebrated the last day.
Made my 6:30am flight this morning.
Arrived in Denver.
Rented my car.
Drove 2 hours to Snow Mountain Ranch in Fraser, CO.

And now.
Folks.
I'm sitting here.
Wondering.
If this is real life?

Pasta Carbanara and Memphis

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It's almost my birthday.
Like.
Almost. :)

31 years.
To celebrate.

So, as we should begin any good celebration, I went to hang with my gym besties.
And they decided to cook me a meal.

That I was sure I wasn't going to eat.
And Memphis, arguably, my favorite basset hound, thought so, too.
As he stared longingly at the bacon I tossed around in the bowl.
And the gluten free pasta lovingly prepped by Paragon.
Who besides being a life saving Fireman in real life.
And amazing trainer.
Is also, a fantastic chef.
Any wonder why he's married to Wonder Woman, I mean?

I have to ask them for the cookbook info.
Because - IMHO - it was the best book I've seen.

Anyways.
While I sat with some of my favorite people in the history of mankindlife, and watched Josh and his mom, Kathie on Extreme Weight Loss Season 4, I moved the pasta around in my bowl.
And watched Memphis, watch me.

Paragon peppered my pasta.
And I sipped my red bull.

Katsby, who was also there, asked whether or not I was going to eat.
And if I was.
Would I keep it down?

And am I working on making that better?
In my life.

I, of course, responded of course, to am I working on that.

To which Katsby offered,
"Yeah, but, really?  Or is that just bs?"

And a beat went by as we made eye contact and I offered the truthful response which is that,
YES.

I am really working on that.

Working on it doesn't mean I get it right all the time.
Eating Disorders.
Are a part of me.
And I will spend the journey of my life seeking to balance eating and less disorder.

By the end of the episode, I had consumed 2/3rds of the meal.
Appeased my crew.
Fed Memphis.

And decided, there was no way I was keeping it down.

Unknown oil.
And bacon.
So much bacon.

I couldn't.
The food was boiling inside of me and by the time I made it home, I must have gained a billion pounds.

I stood in the mirror.
In that long, grey, size small skirt from Marshalls.
And tears of oil and bacon welled in my eyes.

And the pain of having a disorder that, I choose to wear freely so as not to live in shame,
and can sometimes,
fill me with so much pain and regret,
that I just can't keep it inside.

You are huge.
You are...huge.
You are huge.
Hung in the mirror staring back at me.

And then.
As if, all at once.
I thought of my besties from the gym.
And how.
In my real life.
In the body I am in right now.

I am loved.
And all again, as if all at once, what had once been youarehugeyouarehugeyouarehuge...

Shifted.

to

You are loved.
You are LOVED.
YOU ARE LOVED.

And that made me smile.
And the thought of Katsby poking me.
And Paragon sitting way closer than is comfortable.

And how.
With them.
My gym besties.
Close is good.
Side by side eating bacon and oil.
And pasta.
Is good.

I am loved.

And my last thought before I fell asleep.
Filled with Pasta Carbanara.
Was.
This.
I AM working on it.
No bs.
And there are nights.
Like tonight.
When I haven't eaten all day.
Where I get it right.
And enjoy the people.
And the food.
And the living.

S'good.

Scale Size

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Like, don't buy a big blue scale?

Haha, sorry, the title made me chuckle out loud.
Mostly because it reminded me of this guy:

 
Good old baby blue.
Measure of my self hatred.
Er.
Worth.
And really.
Just a piece of metal.

I did my final, final weigh in with Mrs. Ashley Holm.
In my hotel bathroom.
As she was called to do it a second time.
A few hours after the first one.
Much to her chegrin, I am sure.
Did you just call me a Diva under your breathe, it's okay.

:)

But for an entire year.
And a month following finale.
This piece of metal.
Measured the world.
And my worth.
And my ugliness.
All of it.

Until May 5th.
When I decided it didn't.
Couldn't.
Wouldn't.
Anymore.
And for the very last time, I stepped off the scale.
And into loving myself.
For other things.
Besides a number or a measure.

Arguably.
I just started using another measure.
The one printed on the tag of my jeans.
The one that read/reads size 6 jeans.
My miracle jeans.

And that bikini up there.
That gets put on once a week.
I still have body dysmorphia folks.
That doesn't stop just because I decide to be strong.
Right?

Case in point.

 ^This guy.

Now, when my year ended.
I bought a size 10 jean skirt from Le Target Boutique.
And loved it.
It felt good, I felt good.
And I didn't even care that the number inside was double digit.

Well.
I wanted a jean skirt for school.
And the one I had was more for a night out.


Off to Le Wal Mart Boutique to get me the one above.
Last week.
I picked up the 14.
Because.
You know.
I'm huge now.
And held it again my body.
At least my brain can know that wasn't right.
So I picked up the 12.
Still no.
Then the 10.
...
The 10.
You know.
Double digits.
And I thought.
Still no.

And I laughed OUT loud at the store.
To myself.
No.

I picked up the 8.
Held it against my body.
And thought.
Probably not.
But.
I'm gonna try.

This morning.
I tried.
Put on that 8.
Zipped it.
Paired with a white T.
And went to work.

Size.
Scale.
Numbers.
They
don't.

Matter.
Anymore.

Because this morning.
I ate breakfast.
And walked.
On a broken foot.
And last night.
I worked out.
And ran.
And swam.
And laughed.

And the size inside my clothing didn't change anything.
Didn't make me a better teacher.
Or friend.
Except that everyone loved my outfit today.
Which, of course, I love the love :).
But really.
I love myself in a size 18 too.

I love myself on my extra water weight days too.
When my mind and my body feel like they weigh a thousand extra pounds.
And I cry in front of my mirror for no other reason than I can.

I am proud to be heavy scale free.
And number free.

And plain.
Free to be me.
And whatever that means today.

Which in case you were wondering, today, it means sticky hot.
No AC in my classroom.
Glad I fit into a size 8.
Non Sweaty Betty :)