I
thought I’d done enough to dismantle the shameful and debilitating thoughts and
emotions I carried about not feeling welcome in the world. From being
left-handed to maturing early to living in a bigger body, there were multiple
reasons I created this story for myself. A recent experience showed me those
feelings hadn’t actually died; they were just in need of oxygen.
The
first time I ever felt unwelcome was in first grade. As a left-hander in a
Catholic school in 1969, I didn't understand why Sister Symphrose got so upset
that I couldn't angle my letters to the right. I was routinely singled out and
chastised in front of everyone for being the only student who couldn’t get it
right.
By
third grade, I'd already grown chubby, a result of seeking solace in food. I
couldn't exactly walk down to the corner and buy a gram of cocaine to help me
deal with the trauma I experienced from sexual abuse, so I settled for saltines
and Ritz crackers that I pilfered from the kitchen. Tucked in baggies and stored
in my roll top desk, they comforted me when I woke up in the middle of the night
unable to manage overwhelming emotion.
Although
I look at photos of myself from that time and don’t think I’m fat, some around
me felt differently. One time my grandmother took me shopping at Sears right
after they put the summer clothes out and I fell in love with a lime green
skort. I wanted it so badly, but she insisted I was too heavy to wear it.
Another clear message that I, quite literally, didn't fit.
In
fifth grade Nancy Voytosh peaked over the top of a bathroom stall and found me
changing my sanitary napkin. She told all of her friends, none of whom had
gotten their periods yet, and in what I can only assume was a tornado of envy
and insecurity, I became a little girl with an actual Scarlet Letter on my
chest.
Feeling
unwelcome continued into middle school where I was forced to buy a gym uniform
out of a catalog when the phys ed teacher told me I wouldn't fit into in the
largest size they had. Everyone else wore the color of a Key West Sunrise,
bright yellow shorts and yellow and white striped shirts.
My
uniform was the color of a muddy puddle. In addition to always bringing up the
rear in the 440-yard dash, I was the straggler when the class hiked up the hill
from the football field and the only one who couldn't climb the rope. In a sea
of gold, I was easily spotted like a defective Where's Waldo.
High
school was no different. There were plenty of messages that I wasn't welcome,
from the clusters of animal sounds made by the jocks as they passed me in the
hall to the rejections from theater auditions because they didn't have a costume
that would fit me.
As
I grew into an adult, the messages continued. Airplane seats told me I wasn't
welcome. Popular clothing stores, classmate's ice-skating parties, the hills I
found difficult to climb on my college campus, and the dozens of steps up from
the subway when I lived in New York all told me “none of this” was for me.
Each
new experience of feeling unwelcome caused me to shrink inside and that was
reflected in how I navigated life. I crushed myself against bus windows to make
sure my body didn't spill into the next seat. While eating out, I ignored the
signals when I had to go to the bathroom, so I didn't disturb people and make a
scene by asking them to scooch in their chairs. I pressed my arms into my sides
at theaters unwilling to use both armrests, lest I be accused of taking up too
much room. I did whatever was necessary to take up the least amount of space
possible.
Over
the years, with therapy and a lot of self-inquiry, I released a good amount of
this narrative. But recently, after seeking help for the third time from the
excruciating pain I've been in for over a year, I was told I need a hip
replacement and all of the stories about not being welcome returned with a
vengeance.
Although
the orthopedist was kind, the message was clear. It's a shame you're in pain,
but there's nothing we can do until you fit our BMI requirements for surgery.
Tucked in with the pages of orthopedic surgeon referrals was one to a bariatric
surgeon.
So
many of the thoughts and feelings I thought I had eradicated flooded back into
my mind and body, riding a wave of shame I'd long since forgotten.
I
deserve to be in this pain because if I was just thinner everything would be
fine.
Being
fat means I don't deserve to have the surgery that would relieve the
suffering.
“They”
have the education so they must know more than I do. I just need to accept
it.
The
noise was so loud it almost kept me from realizing that I had access to both
knowledge and support that could change my frame of reference. A friend who was
willing to listen, and then sit with me in awkward silence without trying to
devise an answer, held the space for all of my shame, anger and frustration. And
that freed me to remember.
With
the help of my village, I discovered numerous legitimate studies that counter
the reasons for not doing surgery on someone over a certain BMI. This research,
along with the fact that as many as six different drugs are prescribed
post-bariatric surgery (interesting those choosing this route aren’t subject to
the same BMI restrictions), leads me to believe the pharmaceutical and weight
loss industries probably fueled the very first BMI requirements. (Pro tip:
always trace the money).
I
learned that UPMC here in Pittsburgh was the first insurance company to
establish BMI parameters and I came across other people in larger bodies who
found supportive doctors that helped them strategize ways to have the surgeries
they needed. While this may not be enough to change the collective mind of my
insurance company, it helped me not to feel so completely alone. Or
unwelcome.
Empowering
myself this way prevented me from tumbling down the rabbit hole of victimhood,
which is important for two reasons. First, extrication is exhausting. I know
because I’ve done it thousands of times. Second, in any journey, you can only
take one step at a time.
Although
I initially fell into despair, I was able to see, even in the midst of the
emotional hurricane, that this was an opportunity to become a better advocate
for myself. To remember the truth that appears when I let the lies of
unworthiness die on the vine. Truth that has given me the strength and courage
to face things I once found unfaceable. To make changes that improve my quality
of life and make me feel cared for. To be more of who I really am instead of who
I believed I was.
I
am no longer willing to feel exiled in the world because of other people. I will
do whatever is necessary to cut off oxygen to thoughts and feelings that tell me
I’m not welcome and to find connection in every experience. Regardless of how
impossible it may appear.
Feeling
unwelcome cuts me off from my own light. It catapults me into the victim-hood
and nothing positive ever comes from decisions made in that place. I won’t be
perfect on this journey. As a human, I will most likely slip and slide, feeling
on top of the world one minute, then descending into a cave of darkness the
next. But intention will bring me home every time.
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Thank
you for being a reader of The Mosaic Platypus! Sharing stories, knowing they
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