Full Moon Reflection: FAT

Layers of Protection for the Inner Child

In the first few days of January, whilst negotiating with myself about reopening, and what that would look like given all the things, a man on Instagram liked some of my posts. This seemingly innocuous gesture was an incredible trigger, and a tender rabbit hole that dives deep. This man, whose handle was super triggering unto itself, had gone through my home page and chosen all of my selfies to give his attention. He liked them, and even left a couple of comments. His words were sweet enough, but the reaction inside of me was intense. I wanted to hide, firstly. I was filled with rage and resentment, and fear, and disgust, and dismay later. I am not one who takes a ton of selfies, and one of the only reasons that I do is because I noticed that they get better traction than other posts. This is my business profile, after all, and I want broader exposure, so the math seems pretty straight forward: post more selfies, get more likes, expand my reach.

If only it were so simple!

As an energy worker, I know that I could hire marketing experts, create daily content, pay for ads, and build up all those positive reviews, but if the energy I walk with is that of one trying to hide from the world, then that is the result I will get. I will remain unseen.

Ultimately, I am grateful to this man for this gift of discovery. The trigger he pulled inside of me has led to some internal exploration of unconscious behaviors and old traumas of which I have as yet been unaware.

My whole life I have thought I was fat. My auntie’s favorite nicknames for me were: Buoy Butt, Bubble Butt, and Big Butt Bertha—and that had an impact. As I have looked back on the photos of me during times that I thought I was such an enormous monster, I sit in surprise. I was absolutely not fat. That being said, I am a Nordic woman (a Willes woman, as our family is fond of saying). So, even when I was raving, taking amphetamine based drugs on the regular, and dancing 8 hours a night, I still only shriveled down to a 90s size 8 (probably a 2020s size 4/6). But, that is simply not sustainable, nor was it anything near healthy.

Once I stopped partying so hard, I maintained a size 10 dress size, and was pretty comfortable with that. I am a woman living in America, so internally I always kind of desired to be smaller, but honestly, I really like to eat good food, drink great wine, and in general enjoy life, so I wasn’t concerned with looking like a hollowed out waif, or exerting some kind of hyper-control over my diet and lifestyle. I loved the way my body looked when I saw it in the mirror. I felt strong and healthy, and sexy and attractive—attractive enough to get me in plenty of trouble.

Then, at 23, I was raped. I had been in an abusive relationship that I was struggling to leave, and indulging in the professional cook’s lifestyle to the fullest. I would go to the strip of bars in my hometown every night to avoid going home, and get varying degrees of wasted—some nights it was just tipsy, others it was full blackout. This particular night was quiet, though. I had had only two cocktails, so I agreed to take the bouncer (someone I considered a friend) home. By the time we arrived at his house, I was slurring and spinning. That should have been a sign that something was off, but this was such a common state that I didn’t think much of it. I was so unstable that I even broke my toe crossing the threshold of his entry—perhaps a sign from Spirit of the danger that awaited.

Needless to say, hard times lay ahead. I stopped going to the bars so much, but I certainly didn’t stop drinking. Now, I would expand my portfolio and find other ways to abuse myself, primarily closeted gorging. I would binge to the point of puking, then would go on days-long fasts and running spurts to try and manage my weight. As I grew older, the intensity of these self-harm rituals became less obvious, and the weight gain became much less manageable. 

*Please remember, this behavior has only just recently become visible to me. I am writing this from my current vantage point. I had no idea as I was living with these behaviors, that this is what was happening. I certainly never would have identified that I had an eating disorder, although looking back now, I most certainly did.*

Anyway, I would yo-yo on the scale depending on my relationship status, and life circumstances. It always seemed like I could never consciously lose the extra weight I had packed on (even to the present moment). Then, one day I would get back on the scale, and have dropped 20, 30, or 40 pounds! The last time a big drop sneaked up on me was when I had first started dating my husband. It was like all the joy and enthusiasm for life and love that I was experiencing miraculously burned off about fifteen extra pounds, and I couldn’t have been more thrilled.

Then, my father suddenly passed away. Awash in grief, I picked up old habits of binging on bottles of cheap champagne, salty crunchies, and whole bags of candy in a sitting. I wanted to fill the hole. I wanted to feel nourished and comforted, and I wanted to feel pleasure where there was so much pain. I would also go on long sojourns spanning The City to try and mitigate the damage, but there is only so much one can do in that state. On top of that, I would soon discover that my adrenal glands had all but stopped working. The long walks I was forcing myself through were actually working against me. With adrenal burn-out, that’s just extra stress, and it’s damaging. It was just one more way that I was self-flagellating. Within a few months, I had gained 30 pounds, and counting.

My husband also reminded me recently that it was around this time that an incident happened at the laundromat, and to his eye, that was the moment that I started shutting down. Here I was, inhabiting a gorgeous body that I hadn’t seen in so long, feeling my innate sexuality in ways that I hadn’t known were possible, and feeling really safe shining all my glory from the protection of our stable relationship. Then, one sunny day, I went to the laundromat on the corner and was busting ass on some domestic labor (and feeling good doing it!), when I felt hands run up my inner thighs. Of course, I thought this was My Man. So, I turn around all juicy, ready to flirt, and some random dude is standing there. This Jacko walked in from off the street just to touch me in an intimate way without my consent, feeling like he had every right in the world to access my body. I had completely blocked this moment from my memories, and even now as I write these words, I can feel why. 

The confluence of these events set the stage for the next few years of struggles with my sexuality, self-sabotage, health issues, and Identity—struggles that are only just now coming to Light.

Once I realized that my health was in real danger, I tried to get back to a lower weight with renewed effort. Again, I have no interest in being runway thin, but I also am not comfortable with a BMI in the obese category. Moreover, I love research, and am fully aware of the long term health implications of extra body fat, particularly the belly fat that came from my dangerously low cortisol levels. 

At this point in my life, I had already read—and worked—the Fiber 35 Diet, the Engine 2 Diet, the cabbage soup diet, the Master Cleanse, no fruit, all fruit, The Zone Diet, and a few others. I had been diagnosed as a Celiac for a few years, and had spent some time off dairy, too. So now, I worked the Weight Watchers app, general calorie counting, tried Keto, The Four Hour Body, various diet pills and supplements, I tried prescription speed to try and kick start my metabolism, we slept in a cold room with just a thin sheet, I was still going on long walks, I signed up (and worked out) with a really great personal trainer, I did spin classes, I tried ItWorks! body wraps, I have done Intermittent Fasting, Eat Right for Your Blood Type, Paleo, and on and on. Never has there been success with weight loss while I have been consciously aware of trying to lose the weight. It seems that as soon as I feel any shift starting to occur in my body, I must do something to staunch the flow of progress. So, I have even created ways to try and trick myself. Of course, that never works either. The only way to trick one’s self, is to stumble upon it. Otherwise, there is no tricking — duh.

After feeling that incredible trigger from having some schmuck like my selfies on social media, I heard a speaker mention that a large percentage of women who have experienced sexual trauma put on weight afterwards in an effort to escape the male gaze. A light bulb went off! I immediately started researching the data for this. What I found is that 40-70% of women who experience either sexual abuse, or PTSD, have BMIs (Body Mass Index) over 35 (obese). Other than that, there don’t seem to be many studies dedicated to this subject. I did find a wonderful article here though, about another woman’s journey with her own fitness struggles, and ultimate success. It is an article I really appreciated, because finally someone had written a perspective on this journey with which I could really relate.

At this point in my life, I don’t really care much about the dress size I wear, or being a body type that doesn’t look like one from a magazine. I have successfully manifested the fat that I thought I was carrying all along, and that is actually a really cool thing to wake up to—I am POWERFUL. This body has been through so much. It has carried me very successfully through SO MUCH. I have spent so much time hating it, abusing it, and wishing for something else, but it has never let me down, despite it all. In fact, she continues to provide me with valuable information for all aspects of my Earthly journey, every minute of every day. On top of that, I am married to a human who loves me at every size, and still looks at me like I’m a juicy steak he is ready to devour (sometimes to my chagrin — lol), and who I know values me for the being I truly am. 

Besides, some men (and humans in general) are horrible no matter what dress size one wears. 

Artwork by Michi Sama

My mother is just 20 years my senior, and has always been svelte and petite. When we moved back down to California when I was 14, she was about 15% body fat and would rock these skimpy little bikinis at our apartment’s poolside. They were the kind of bikini tops you might see models wearing in beer ads, where the woman’s boobs are hanging out of the bottom—very sexy, but not something your teenage daughter is thrilled about. She has always had great legs, and would wear these miniskirt shift dresses into Walmart, and men couldn’t seem to help themselves. They would follow her around the store with their tongues lolling out, drool staining their greasy shirts. She was always blissfully ignorant—but, I was not. I was constantly enraged at the barbaric behaviour of these creeps, and their seeming inability to control these base impulses.

After the abuse I encountered later in life, these impressions from my early years seemed to be confirmed. Looking back, it has worked against my sense of safety in the world, all the while aiding my unconscious desire to hide from that attention with a thick layer of protection.

My days of being thin certainly didn’t help with my impressions of men and a lack of safety, either. I remember a young man telling me after a hot night of sex, “you have the personality of a fat girl, but you are so beautiful and thin!” Was that supposed to be a compliment?! Another once said to me, “I never thought I’d enjoy being with a big woman”, I was a size 8 and 20% body fat at the time. All of the usury and abuse I encountered came during moments when I would be at a socially acceptable weight for current beauty standards. Men would always seem to think it was OK for them to refer to me as a commodity, or a plate of food for their consumption—that I existed for them. 

Then, in the times I have been fat, married men have felt that it was OK to tell me about how their own wives were fat, too, but that they were “OK with that, heh”. Dudes who once would grind their cocks into me when giving me hugs, would now treat me like I was their sister, or nothing at all. Mostly, I just get passed over as a woman who might still be sexual, and though sometimes that stings a bit, it has, in large part, been a huge relief. 

I want to be attractive to those who I want to be attractive to, but I gotta tell ya, I LOVE walking down the street without receiving cat calls. I LOVE talking with whomever I damn well please, and feeling the safety to do so, without them thinking that this means I am interested in a date. I love riding the bus without some fucking guy thinking I am a chick on his dating app. I love energetically feeling insulated, protected, and safe.

But, I want to be seen professionally. I want to expand my reach to those who might want (or need) the healing I have to offer. I want for my body to be healthy and strong for many, many years to come. My daughter is still very young, and I want to be active and spry when she has babies of her own. I want to be around long enough to see my grandchildren become their own humans. And, I really want to live a life free from so much physical pain. Being overweight has taken its toll on so many facets of my physical well being, it exacerbates the arthritis in my neck and spine, it contributes to my sleep apnea, and it has put tremendous pressure on my hips, knees, and feet, increasing the pain of plantars fasciitis that I inherited from twenty years as a cook.

The fact of the matter is that I am no more or less in danger of being judged, criticized or harmed as a fatty than I am when I am fit. In fact, instead of the danger being external, I have internalized it. I am blocking my progress personally AND professionally by hiding out under my physical fat blanket, and carrying this energy of wanting to hide.

Let me say also, this topic is many layered (no pun intended). There is very real anxiety that presents when the fridge gets too empty, or my larder runs low. Part of this might be my ancestral Mormon roots, always preparing for the apocalypse. But, it also stems from years of living in poverty. I can remember many, many times when I stole pieces of bread and cheese  from my roommates because I couldn’t afford to buy food, or when I had five dollars for the week, and needed to figure out how to stretch that. Now that more abundance is present, it feels like the ultimate security to have a storage unit brimming with consumables. 

Sometimes, I feel I am truly a Hobbit ;)

But, back to the point. Weight loss is so very much more than calories in, calories out. It is so much more than discipline, or the lack thereof. I feel strongly that there is also an insane drive in our culture for unhealthy levels of fitness that helps to support white supremacy and male dominance—but those are discussions for another time, and that others have shared much more articulately than I ever could. For some of us who have identified a real call to better health in the form of weight loss, it could require some serious internal investigation, therapy, and trauma release.

So, again, I give thanks to that guy on Instagram for triggering all of this. I give thanks to my Tantric path, my teachers, and my husband for walking with me through this self-discovery, and ultimately, for being champions of my spiritual growth and healing. And many, many thanks to my Fairy Godmother of a therapist. She is a good witch with powerful magic, and truly transformative suggestions for spiritually charged homework.

This time, my therapist has suggested I create a Spell For My Cells, and that is what I offer you now. If any of this long, and sordid tale speaks to your own experience, may this be a blessing for you, as well. 

*One more note before we get into that spell, as I sit here finishing this story, I am clear just how uncommitted I am to weight loss in this moment. Instead, I seek Freedom. This spell for my cells is to achieve freedom from the bondage of my fear, from the boogeymen of my past, from the trauma of a life fully lived. I desire to shed the protection that has kept me from being seen. My thick coat isn’t actually protecting me anymore (if it ever did), it is weighing me down, and preventing me from taking flight.*

So, with that: I speak to every cell in my body, You are SAFE. You are LOVED. You are LIGHT. All of existence, and everything there ever was, is, and ever will be is here to Protect and Serve my soul’s expression, upliftment, and fulfillment. I Love you BODY. I love that you are so very capable of housing my immortal SOUL. I RELEASE you from your bondage. Be free and fly like the Stellar Deity you truly are. 

And so it is!