Fat/Fit Feminism

Do you all remember when I started this blog when I began my journey into pursuing health and weight loss? I still want to continue this blog. But, I've been avoiding it because I have no idea how to marry my personal health and fitness goals with being sensitive to body positivity and fat shaming. I try to just stick with what I'M doing personally, without talking on what anyone else is doing, but I'm concerned that isn't enough. I have read and re-read articles from both camps of fit feminists, "health at any size" activists, proud fat women, proud fit women and everything in between. I still struggle to know where I stand.

When I first started seeing my doctor, she told me weight loss will help with some physical and mental ailments I've been having. Since she has a doctorates in medicine, and I do not, I trust her judgement and I don't think she's fat shaming me. She gave me a cure, and I am taking that seriously. With her guidance, and the support of friends and family, I have changed the way I eat, am working out 3-4 days a week, and am choosing more active activities. I do follow a somewhat strict meal plan, and I regularly weight myself to see my progress. My doctor was right. I feel so much better than before. It has helped depression, chronic foot and back pain, AND stomach issues. Those issues, I believe, were directly related to the fact that I was medically overweight. I believe, 100%, that all of my ailments directly correlated to my body weight and generally shitty lifestyle. Not only that, but I feel empowered. I feel stronger. I feel healthier. I feel like my sword is sharper, so to speak. I absolutely think that's feminist.

Many of my friends and/or colleagues do not agree. I see convicting articles daily that say talking openly about what I eat, the fact that my ultimate goal is to lose a set amount of weight, and not being neutral about food is anti-feminist. It almost feels like my existence itself is shaming fat people, and I sort of feel the knee jerk reaction to defend myself. I know what I'm doing is essentially putting myself back into a position of privilege as a thin person. I don't take this lightly, and have read everything I can on different ideas and rhetoric regarding body weight and feminism. There's so many different avenues and beliefs, it can get overwhelming. I wanted to share with you some loose, ever changing conclusions on the matter to spark a discussion.  I do this knowing that I will probably get called out. Which I am ok with. I have friends and acquaintances that are about three thousand times better read and more educated on me, so it's expected. Encouraged, even. There is power in stating I don't know. I am giving full disclosure that my views on the subject right now are not set in stone, I am not totally married to them, and they might be wrong. I'm ok with admitting that I might not be a very good feminist.

Here goes. It'll probably be out of order but I prefer to delve into it by list.

-Being fat is a disadvantage in our society. We face belittlement, harassment, cruel words, being written off as lazy, careless and disgusting. We face a lesser chance of being hired than our thinner counterparts, and rarely get to see our bodies in the media. It is more difficult for us to find well fitting clothing, understanding doctors, and when we ask for help we more or less get ridiculed than get actual help. If we don't ask for help, and are happy with our fat bodies we get laughed at, mocked, or ridiculed. None of those things are right, and I do not advocate for any of them. I move into a thinner body knowing that I am accepting a privilege others do not have. I don't take this lightly.

-I do believe in body positivity. Accepting yourself, loving yourself, and the body that you have. This includes everything- weight, skin color, physical "imperfections", disability. This isn't easy, but I always encourage that idea first before anything else. For many this can look vastly different. Some have more sex, some have none, some eat donuts, some eat salad, some go for a run, some take a nap, some paint, some write, some lift weights. If you're not hurting anyone else around you, whatever it takes for you to accept yourself, I greatly encourage. I also encourage and firmly stand behind representation of all body types in the media because those are people who exist in the world. And everybody deserves a voice and representation. Fat people exist. I am one of them. They bring all kinds of beauty to the world and I would never require someone to be thin or fit before I listened to them. I try to animate the idea that there is more to a person than their body, and everyone has the right to be in their body, if they choose. Everyone also has the right to change their body in anyway they see fit.

-I also believe in science. I am not scientifically apt, and I am not a medical professional. So, I place my trust in the scientists and doctors of the world to teach me what I need to know. This is imperfect. For every idea or theory, there is one opposite. Figuring out credible and reliable information at this day and age is not all that simple and a lot of times people discover they are wrong. However, from what I have read so far; I will tell you that I don't believe in "health at any size." I think this is where I am going to lose people. Do I think health looks like the cover of Shape magazine? Fuck no. Do I think health comes in many different shapes, sized and abilities? Yup. But, overwhelming medical evidence suggests that being obese can cause a slew of different medical ailments. Chronic pain, depression, diabetes, heart disease, etc. Your panels at the doctor's may come back normal now, but they probably won't be later. People with obesity have a shorter life expectancy. It starts at 7 years shorter for class 1, and goes up to 20 years shorter for class 3.  With this information, I cannot look someone straight in the eye and tell them "you can be healthy at any size" if we are talking about physical health and obesity. The same goes for people who are underweight. Underweight people also face some of the same diseases; heart disease, stroke, depression, etc. For the same reason, I cannot say they are healthy either. These are notions that are accepted by the scientific and medical communities pretty much across the board. I take that seriously. To piggy back off science,

-I believe everyone can lose weight. This also required a bit of reading but, I don't believe genetics is a cause of high body fat. It's as simple as calories in/ calories out. Not gluten free, not sugar free, not atkins, not keto or paleo. Not 21 day fix. Not beachbody. If you choose any of these programs, and they work for you, great! Stick with them. But, it really only comes down to counting the appropriate amount of calories you're consuming and working off. That's it.  If you tell me you are eating only 800 calories a day and running 10 miles a week, and still gaining weight; I will encourage you to really count what you're eating. It isn't a trick. It isn't genetics. The math is really very simple.

But listen.

-I don't expect anyone to lose weight. I also realize calorie counting and working out is about a million times easier said than done. Things like disability, depression, life circumstances can absolutely affect this. Counting everything you consume sucks and it's hard and I don't expect anyone it do it, ever. Running is hard and it sucks and again, I don't expect anyone to do it. The cycle of depression can make things like pursuing physical health impossible. I understand this. I have battled those demons my whole life, and I know personally, the sheer weight of a mental illness can be. I know the sheer weight of money issues, miseducation, inability to find a job. Being a human can be deep, dark stuff. I realize how poverty can effect a person's health, and I realize that being educated on health is absolutely a privilege. My neighborhood itself is considered a food desert. That means buying healthy options can be expensive and difficult, and I would never expect someone to automatically have those skills. On the other hand, maybe you're perfectly happy with your weight, as are a self proclaimed fat person. Maybe you love what you eat, and you love your body exactly the way it is. That's freaking sweet.  And super rare. I am proud of you, I root for you and I love you because

-Your health is ultimately not my business. I have my beliefs about health, as illustrated before. I do think obesity is a problem. I don't think people with high body fat will be healthy in adulthood. But, it is not really my business. As a general rule, for all strangers, acquaintances, and friends who have not explicitly solicited my ideas-I more or less keep my mouth shut about it. I am not going to police anyone's body. Unless you have explicitly asked, I will never tell you your pizza is bad for you, or that you need to work out more, or that fat people are at risk for a, b and c. Chances are you either already know. And I want to give you as much freedom to do with whatever information you have because you are not me, and I am not you.

But,

-I am not responsible for your body acceptance. The pursuit of physical health is an interest of mine that continues to grow as a I learn more about it. I have grown to love learning about and putting into practice healthy cooking, exercise, and mindfulness. I have noticed exciting changes in my own life that I can with certainly attribute to my adaptation of a healthy lifestyle. Running makes me feel amazing, I am fueled by foods that are good for my body, I am more clear minded, happier, less anxious and more confident. I feel sharper all around and I can't wait to to become an even sharper individual. I personally, am doing that through weightloss and fitness. I'm not going to lie about that so I can make sure you're comfortable. Body acceptance has to start with you. I will not set aside my own interests and passions to make sure every single person around me feels ok. That is not, and can not be my job. I have to trust that I am trying my best, I am respecting the people around me, and that I am only giving health related advice to people who ask. Or, on my own personal blog. Because fuck you, this is my blog. I am a fitness oriented feminist.

I welcome any of your thoughts. I want to hear what you have learned about these issues, so I can better my stances. I welcome calling me out on anything that I might of said that you consider problematic with the full disclosure that you might not be able to change my mind. I am happy to have a civil discussion and I am open to learning. If you think my facts are wrong, freaking tell me.

What will be promptly not tolerated and deleted is name calling, sweeping assumptions and generally being a dick.

The (inner) monologue.

6:00am. Alarm goes off. "What if I can't do it today?"
6:30am. After a cold brew coffee, my shoe laces are tied and we're heading out the door. Water bottle and bug spray in tow. "What if I feel embarrassed today? I hope there's no one there. Please let there be no one there." I sheepishly clasp my hands together in prayer and do a hail Mary.
6:40am. It seems like there are more people than usual. I blush from embarrassment.
6:43am. "Why did I drink so much this weekend?" I already feel slow.
6:45am. Five minute warm up walk. I make an attempt to enjoy the morning. My brain ends up spiraling into what mind over matter means and I decide it's a bunch of bullshit. I miss the morning's beauty again.
6:50am. C25K app dings and says the words I've been dreading. Begin running.
6:55am. It's only been 5 minutes and I'm already out of breath. "How am I going to make it? There's no way I'm going to make it."
7:00am. Two songs have played. If I've done the math correctly, I need to run through six and a half. My shins hurt, my pace is slow and I'm struggling to catch my breath. "This is torture. Is this ever going to be easy for me?"
7:02am. The familiar "ding." You are halfway there. "Only halfway? Go to hell, weird lady in my app."
7:02andahalf am. The third song is just now starting. "Why the fuck is Monster Mash on my running playlist?" I try to "zone out." I do not know what it means when a runner "zones out." I'm very aware of the extra 90 pounds I'm trying to run with. I decide zoning out is for skinny people.
7:05am. A large group of thin, tan, and healthy teenage girls run past me three times my speed, effortlessly. "Oh, fuck you." The stares make my stomach turn, and I'm ashamed and angry. The last of my confidence (which now is the size of a mustard seed) is squashed. I start to walk
7:08am. "What the fuck are you doing? Am I really just quitting? God dammit, Erica." My legs still won't run. I don't really know why but the fact that my calves feel like tree trunks is a good indicator.
7:09am. I only have six minutes left. I start running again. I can't feel my legs anymore and I want to cry. I can't believe I let myself walk for a minute. I wonder if it's ever going to start feeling good to go for a run. I get angry at fit people for running like it's a goddamn fucking hobby. 
7:10am. I'm looking at the stopwatch every minute. It's torture. I want to stop, but I don't.
7:11am. "How is this entire fucking trail uphill? Is that even physically possible?"
7:12am. A couple walking next to each other coming the opposite direction. They're taking up the entire trail. Both staring at me struggling. Neither one moves to the left and I'm forced off the trail. I'm so angry, I flip them off with both fingers. "I'm 245 pounds, I'm sweating buckets, I'm clearly struggling with what I'm doing. I'm not trying to have a fucking face off with you. So move."
7:12am. Time is moving at glacial speeds. I'm mad at those teenage girls. I'm mad at that stupid couple. I'm mad at time itself.  I'm mad at this stupid song on my playlist. I'm mad at my legs. I'm mad at the ground. I'm mad at myself.
7:12am. "Did time just stop? Is the world just fucking with me now?"
7:12am. "Yeah, it's fucking with me now.
7:13am. "I don't think I'm going to make it."
7:14am. "I don't think I'm going to make it."
7:15am. Ding. Your run is complete, start your cool down now.

honey to the soul.

I woke up this morning at 6am sharp, as I have done almost every weekday morning for five weeks. It hurts to get up that early. My right eye is about twenty minutes behind as I shuffle around my apartment getting ready. I want to go back to bed, but I drink a cold brew coffee instead and slip on my running shorts. Once my right eye is finally open, I notice how cool the air is outside, even in the dead of summer. The sun just rose and the last bits of pinks and orange liter the sky. It's quiet, except for the songs of house sparrows on the sidewalk. Angie and I leave the apartment, and I feel the familiar nervousness start to seep in my bones.

What if I fail.

My stomach starts to ache. It's one thing to be the Fat Girl running. It's another thing to be the Fat Girl who tried to run and couldn't, in public, for everyone to witness. Today is the last day of week five in the Couch to 5K program. Day two was 8 minute intervals. Today is running 20 minutes straight. I'm afraid I can't do it. I give myself a pep talk. "I will try my best. I know what my best is by now. I will run as far as I can. If I stop before the twenty minutes is up, I will not beat myself up. I will not consider it a fail because I will try again and again until I can do it."

As I start to grasp my health, I've grappled with the idea of failure. I see fitness blogs or Pinterest posts often with phrases like, "failure is not an option."  Let me tell you something, failure is absolutely an option. Not only that, but when you're a 250 pound person who's trying to shed 100 pounds by her wedding next year, it will absolutely, without a doubt, fucking happen. I understand now, though, that true failure is when you fail the first time, and never try again.  I did that a lot when I first started because I listened to the voice in my head that told me I was a gross, fat, loser who was never going to be a runner. I would laugh at myself, "get a load of this asshole, this 250 pound lady thinks she's going to run." I would get sad. I would eat a bunch of cheez its, I would drink a bunch of beer. I quit. That kind of failure hurts everywhere. It wasn't until I saw a YouTube video about a 500 pound man talk about learning to accept himself that it all clicked.

Though sometimes deceivingly helpful on the outside, the anti-fat movement in this country is damaging. It feeds the monsters that live in fat people's minds that says, "you aren't good enough. You are disgusting. You don't deserve to feel good. You don't deserve anything good." Do you know what the least helpful thing is when trying to accomplish a goal? Particularly weight loss? That goddamn negative self talk. It's ironic that people who hate fat people so much do the very thing that keeps fat people fat. When the man in the video started explaining that, it totally clicked for me. I formally tried to use negative self talk as motivation. "Get up off the bed, you fat fuck. You are useless. Get up and run, you lazy piece of shit." I don't have to say that it doesn't work. That same talk would come creeping back when I did fail, and keep me in the state of failure. "You really are useless. Just give up, you don't deserve it. Go get drunk and forget about all of this. Nothing matters, you're disgusting." Do you see why that shit doesn't work?

So, I will love myself through this process, instead. I will talk kindly to myself, "look what your body has done and will do! You are beautiful. I'm excited to see you sharpening your sword! You deserve to feel good today, how about a run?" I will love myself enough to give myself nourishing foods. To strengthen my body and my mind. I will run. Hike. Identify birds. Laugh uproariously. Be unashamed to refer to myself as "fucking awesome." To call a therapist. I will because I love myself, and I want myself to feel better. I will because I deserve to have a full life. I deserve to find beauty again. Though, I don't mean to say that like it's easy. It's not. I still hate looking in the mirror, and often avoid mirrors and any other reflective pieces of glass at great lengths. I don't talk kindly to myself naturally. I have to purposely choose to do it, and it often feels contrived and ridiculous. But, like I said earlier the only true failure is giving up. So, even though it hurts, and I tend to do it with one eye open, I will choose to love myself.

This morning, I woke up at 6am. The air was painted blue and orange, and I quietly sipped my coffee trying not to be grumpy. My stomach sank heavy with worry that I was going to fail. I chose to be kind to myself, and asked that if I didn't make it the full 20 minutes that I would speak only honey to my soul. I wouldn't come undone. I wouldn't quit.

This morning, I woke up at 6am and traveled to the Metropark. I put my headphones in, with the intentions of trying my best. I ran the full 20 minutes, without stopping. The longest I have run since freshman year of high school. I feel proud.

Oh yeah, here's that video. I never thought a white man would say the words that helped shift my views and ultimately change my life, but he did so thanks, dude!

the End, the Beginning.

My first few years in college were what I considered to be the best of my life. I was active, I traveled, I partied, I had a lot of friends. I've struggled with depressive episodes my whole life but was generally happy and was enjoying all the activities I participated in. I was fun. Funny. Carefree. I climbed roofs, danced in bars, went streaking. I went on a three month camping trip where I visited thirty some national parks in thirty some different states. I climbed mountains, I slept under the stars, I drank cowboy coffee for breakfast. I visited bustling, colorful, overwhelming Mumbai, India... not once, but twice. I talked to people. I heard and told stories. I was engaged with the world around me. I was desperate for learning about the world around me and thirsty for spiritual discovery.

But I still kept a secret. I don't know why, but I was still scared to tell anyone I was gay. Luckily, during this time, I didn't have much of an interest in dating--- I loved myself enough and enjoyed my independence. So, I quietly tucked it away and told myself, "I'll worry about this later."

That was until 2010 when I met two elders from a college Christian ministry. They seemed like a couple of really incredibly human beings and eventually offered to let me live with them over the summer so I could stay in my college town of Bowling Green. They accepted me into their family, cooked me meals, prayed for me, laughed with me, and (most of all) encouraged me and built me up beyond skyscrapers. I was up to my ears in this pure, sparkling, white love. Of course I wanted to be a Christian, this was amazing. I was completely overwhelmed and dazzled by the whole thing that I was blinded to that fact that some of the teachings of this church went exactly against everything I ever believed in. Mostly, that little aforementioned secret. But I pressed on anyway. I went to church. I sang worship songs. I read the bible. I prayed. I went to freaking bible study. I was immersed in this seemingly perfect community.

After the initial novelty of it all wore off,  it really fucked with me.

When you live for three years believing that you either have to somehow change or hide who you really are, or otherwise lose this amazing community and face an eternity of pain beyond human grasp, anxiety and depression take hold fast. I was a mess. I over compensated for my secret by trying to date boys. It didn't work. I prayed every morning, afternoon, and night for my desires to go away. They didn't. I tried to personally commit my life to one of singleness, and that just made me hella depressed. Quickly, I was realizing that in order to stay in this community I loved so dearly, I was sacrificing a huge part of myself. The part of my human core that wants to love, and be loved, and fuck, and date, and mobilize with the LGBT community had to be shoved away. I made a mistake.

I started drinking heavily to self medicate. I lived most of my life completely hungover waiting for 5PM to roll around so I could crack open another tall boy. I couldn't find God anywhere. I was terrified of going to hell for something I felt like I couldn't control. I isolated myself from most of my friends because I was afraid of how they would react (and with good reason). When I finally couldn't take it anymore, I was totally boiling over when I came out of the closet. I didn't execute it well, but I stated the facts, and I put it out there. I am gay. I like women. I want to date women. I want to marry one. There was a small part of me that hoped my Christian community would still accept me like they had before, still love me. Still keep me safe in the amoeba. Some did. Most didn't.

Slowly, old friends stopped talking to me and stopped trying to hang out. When I would see them in public, conversation was awkward and rushed. I know they were trying but there was a twinge of pain that came from knowing they thought my sexuality was a sin against God. The couple I mentioned earlier, who took me in and loved me like family, started to lose interest in me. I wasn't invited over much, and their kids who called me "aunt Erica" did not have me as their babysitter anymore. She admitted that our friendship was going to change because I wasn't a follower of Jesus anymore. I started to really feel like I wasn't good enough. I wasn't pure enough. I didn't pray enough. I couldn't possibly love Jesus and love women at the same time. I was dirty. She assured me that she was willing to work on our friendship through this, but I really wasn't sure. It seemed like an ultimatum. Losing them seemed impossible, but not living the way I was born to live seemed impossible too. The cruel paradoxes in my life at the time became too much, eventually.

I went insane. And landed in a psychiatric unit in November of 2013.

When I got out, it was over. I received the dreaded message from the very person I felt was impossible to lose. "Dear Erica, I can no longer have any communication with you, or be in the same social circles." When I read that everything felt like it was underwater. I remember the ringing in my ears. I didn't know what to do. I had lost my family. I had lost my friends. I wasn't welcome at church or any church related groups or functions she was apart of. Since she was an elder, she single-handily used her power to totally excommunicate me. It hurt. I was pissed. I was sad. I wanted to hit something. Since then, I left Christianity all together. The taste it left in my mouth was least desirable.

I was devastated to the point of remiss. I was devastated so deeply, that for a few months I didn't feel a thing. I had a few friends left over from the train wreck (which now my gratefulness for them extends beyond the galaxy) but, I lost interest in everything. I was just sad. I hated my job. I never stopped drinking. I had sex with people I didn't know. I was trying to simultaneously ease the immense amount of pain I was in, while trying to feel something again, too. I lived like that for an entire year. The world that once was full of love and color and wind and rain and mountains and beauty... became bleak and grey. Everything had this evil tint to it. Even the things I once loved and held close to me. Even the once beloved oceans seemed to have this sinister twist to them. It was horrific.

Then I met Angie.

For the first time in a year, I was having fun with somebody. We laughed, we drank, we cooked meals together. We TRAVELED. We traveled. Did you guys fucking hear that we TRAVELED. I was suddenly inspired to be a better person. We fell in love. We got engaged. I cared about a person on a romantic level. I cared about something enough that I wanted to marry it. It was beautiful and terrifying and exciting. I really, critically, began look at myself. Who I had become. What I was about. What was left of me since the year I let life kick my ass. And I didn't like it one bit. When I actually looked in the mirror for the first time, I realized I had gained a lot of weight. 90 pounds to be exact. In a year.

Do you know what happens to your body when you gain 90 pounds in a year? Only horrible things. My feet hurt. My back hurt. I can't cross my legs. I can't do any of the things I once loved easily. Hiking is hard. Swimming is hard. My asthma got worse. I was tired all the time. I have difficulty tying my god damn fucking shoelaces. Tying my shoelaces now is like trying to fold a bowling ball in half. I am not the person I used to be. I used to jump around and dance and be able to hold high energy conversations. Now, I'm perpetually embarrassed and tired.

What happened to my body? I'll tell you what happened. I turned 23, my metabolism packed it's bags and moved the hell out. I let depression and self loathing completely take over in it's place. I ate gummy bears for breakfast. I put well over 2,000 calories of beer in my eating hole every night before I went to bed. If you want to gain 90 pounds in a year, I can tell you exactly how to do it. Just live exactly like that and you'll be all set.

I don't want to live like that anymore. I want some parts of old Erica back. I want to foster a space for new, better Erica to grow. Slowly, I walk out to the meadow where my tree bears fruit. I am choosing to water it, and give it sun, and tell her that I love her.

I have some goals to work on now. I've got 100 pounds altogether that I would like to get rid of, and from the aftermath of excommunication, a severe, relentless cruel anxiety that I never had before. (But, that's for a the next blog update.) I desire health now. Holistically. Earnestly. And I couldn't be more absolutely terrified. You don't know what terror is until you go out in public and become fat girl running. But I will do it anyway. I will run. I will eat well. I will work on my anxiety. I will not continue to take jobs that I'm over qualified for because it's easy. I will find myself again. It'll take a while, but I will. I have to.

So to both combat and embrace the fear, I am starting a blog about how I'm doing it. It will cover mostly the weight loss but, the mental health aspects as well. I want to invite you to cheer me on, pursue your own path, make fun of me behind my back, and/or talk to me about it to my face. I plan to talk about how hard my workout was that day, gripe about how I want to eat ONE MILLION FUCKING DONUTS RIGHT NOW, maybe sometimes post pictures of what I made myself to eat that was healthy and I was particularly proud of. Most of all, I will be endlessly exploring the deep oceans of what it means to love myself. 

I am currently counting calories, watching what I eat, and running via the Couch to 5k program. I'm in my fifth week and have so far lost a total of 13 pounds (don't be fooled though, there was some serious on and off flaky shit before I really got it together). I'm working on getting in touch with a mental health professional for some counseling and medication (but don't be fooled again, calling a doctor is terrifying because what if I say something stupid! or what if the doctor is evil and is planning to perform illegal experiments on me! or what if I die and spend eternity in the hellish void of my own mind!) But, like I said, most of all I am making the choice to love myself. To be gentle to me. To speak kind words. To embrace. To let my soon-to-be-wife love me. And believe it.

This is the end. This is the beginning. And I am excited and petrified to share it with you all.

My name is Erica Reese and I currently weigh 249 pounds which is roughly 90 pounds more than what I weighed in college. Which wasn't that long ago. The rapid weight gain hurt all over. My feet, my back, my stomach, my head. I felt and looked terrible. Eventually, I decided to do something about it.

I'm in my fifth week of C25K and counting calories through my fitness pal. I am down 11 pounds from when I started at 260 pounds. My fifth week is starting to get pretty difficult so I thought I'd start a blog to help with accountability. I will be posting my thoughts through out the process, some of my favorite healthy meals, and weight check ins. My goal is to reach 160 pounds in a year. That is 100 pounds over all. Woah! So here we go!