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You're Not Welcome

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You're Not Welcome

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.

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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 have the power to spark memories and nurture healing, is part of how I contribute to this world.

The capitalistic strategy of subscription levels - you can see “this” if you pay to subscribe, otherwise you only can read “that” feels icky. I want to share my writing in the most inclusive way possible so all of what I write and every podcast-lette are available to everyone.

That being said, the financial realities of living in this world exist. If you’d like to support what I do, you can purchase a paid subscription to The Mosaic Platypus for only $5/month, Buy Me A Coffee or purchase a copy of The 10-Minute Self-Care Journal. Have a great weekend and a Merry Christmas if you celebrate!



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