Okay. So. Truth.
After the sociopath we’re left with many things.
Mostly super icky things.
We need to find the good after the sociopath walks out.
After the sociopath walks out we’re each left with a basket of garbage and rubble we need to turn to great good for ourselves. We might be left with some good things we can spot right off the bat; definitely we’re left with some not so good things that require persistent and courageous attention. One of those such things that I haven’t gotten a grip on yet is: Fat.
Before the sociopath I was pretty fit.
Yoga, dance, hiking, walking…
Great stamina for touring Disney Land and flea markets.
I want that back.
I’m not a woman who strives for Skinny-Minnie. The opposite: the idea of being too thin freaks me out. Seeing so many size 2 and under tiny, little boyish-waifs who refuse to eat pasta, bread, French fires, cheese, any nuts aside from raw, organic almonds; eat no butter, bananas (too much sugar content) or heaven forbid – ice-cream – at least not in public, I can’t handle that. Ice cream…? Who doesn’t need ice cream once in a while?
I gotta be me.
We gotta be who we are.
Rapid and scary weight loss is part of the ride out of hell after a sociopath. First I dropped 2 clothing sizes practically overnight after the monster checked out. Then gained those and 2 more. – Yes, count ‘em… that’s an up swing of 4 clothing sizes. Yikes. 2 Lost. 4 gained… so I’m carrying around an extra 2-sizes of behind. Let’s say 2 and a half. – I don’t know my weight in numbers; I don’t have a scale. I find them brutally demeaning. I weigh heavy, meaning I can carry more weight than I look like I do. – A lot more.
Many of us are left with our health torn apart after the sociopath walks out.
I also battled being sick a lot after the sociopath, so there were days – weeks at a time – I skipped exercise because of migraines, outbreaks on my hands of blisters that bloom with stress, or a cold – which I started getting every 3 – 4 months V.S. once in 3 – 4 years pre-sociopath. As chub-laden and sluggish as I am, I barely make it through a yoga class. I tried. The teacher kept singling me out to ask if I was alright, as my belly fat blocked me from bending and gyrating myself into a crescent side twist that wasn’t excruciating. Under her scrutiny my size grew alarmingly. My now super-huge thighs and extra-fat feeling knees left me unable to rest in child’s pose. At every solicitous query into my “okay-ness” I wanted to knock her in the head. Or scream, “No. I’m not okay. I’m fat!” — And out of breath. And nearly collapsing to the floor.
Do what works. Bit by bit life gets better after the sociopath walks out.
After the yoga session I tried walking outdoors; embarrassingly, I feel too fat to walk! There’s a rolling sensation from ample ass and back-side through my hips and groin and thighs rendering a rhythmic, lumpy duck waddle. It’s disheartening living in stretchy jeans (in a size I abhor) and long-sleeved tee-shirts in a world where women wear skinny jeans and tiny body skimming tops that show their exercised and tanned arms and short or long sundresses – called town gowns – year round.
And sometimes, alone, at home where no one can see me I think I’m still beautiful and wonder why it matters. Then someone asks me to go to a concert, or a show – and I say, “No.” – Because I truly have nothing to wear. I’ll not buy a little black dress to cover this. It would look so bad to my eye that I would crumple and cry before I got out the door. And heels make the impression of a huge, lumpy olive on top of a spindly tooth-pick. Horrible aesthetics. Sigh.
I console myself that I have nice feet & a good pedicure in year-round sandal country.
Killer hair too. Sorry to be so superficial, but every bit counts right now.
But, neither of those are health risks.
I know, I know, we might say all of this is ego, or superficial. Maybe. But I feel it all in quiet agony. And – the thing is – I feel my body freezing up; I used to do all this close-to-impressively-advanced yoga, and walk, and feel like a dancer, a swan – able, competent. What if the roots of some serious illnesses are developing here? High blood pressure and high cholesterol or heart disease or diabetes. Surely it’s best to loose weight. But… dieting? It makes me nervous. It makes me eat… more.
I want to be me – and a better me – after the sociopath.
Our futures are our own.
We can make our lives as we choose.
So on a significant day for me – I took myself in hand. December 4 marks the day I began practicing the Buddhism I practice with SGI – pretty impressive, if I say so myself, something to celebrate. But, on this day I was bedridden with a cold; it looked like a dismal day of defeat. I decided this would not be the case. I vowed that despite outward appearances, despite not being able to move: Today would be the day I became an athlete. A yoga-lete, I coined the name – unless that already exists somewhere out there – because I want to live my life doing yoga and walk-jogging and hiking. So, that day I got myself together. I’ve heard so many times that you can “walk yourself fit”. So. Here I go. I will let nothing stop me. Start where I am and walk it off. Grateful for moving.
I went for a 30-minute walk in the neighborhood avoiding people. I ignored my rolling rear-end. At a mid-height garden wall I lifted my legs and used it to stretch. I said, “I’m an athlete; a yoga-lete. This is the first day of being an athlete.” The following day I said, “This is day 2 of being an athlete; a yoga-lete!” – and did some stretches. I felt good keeping my word to myself and said, “It may not look like it, but I’m a yoga-lete.”
The next morning, I woke up smiling.
Looking forward to how cool it’ll be to see
my tummy shrink back into its proper place.
On that day – Day 3 – I went for a 30-minute walk, more vigorous, though nothing truly athletic, but outside, where people could see me. I passed The Peninsula Club on South Santa Monica Blvd, and witnessed a man and woman climbing out of a Ferrari. He lifted her with a hand leveraged in his.
He looked typical Beverly Hills with jeans, a Kitson-perfect tee-shirt and the right hat and sunglasses. She looked R.I.D.C.U.L.O.U.S. She was über slender, short, as is the norm here in HollywoodLand, but made tallish in extreme platform heels of 5 inches giving her feet the flexibility of a horse hoof. She wore all black. A short black dress, her black hair in a meticulous up-do. Dark, updated, Breakfast at Tiffany’s sunglasses, and because it’s winter in Beverly Hills – a black fluffy wrap held close around herself, clutched in her hands in front of her rail thin body.
As we can all now recognize a sociopath when we see one – we can read people in general. The “read” evoked involuntary laughter – after she walked by. She had her head held as if in mockery of a high fashion model’s fish lip, sunken cheek haughtiness, as if to telegraph “I’m so beautiful.” Vapid, empty, like a cutout paper-doll. She took it all so seriously walking the same attitude; one foot placed directly in the path of the previous step, the far-apart, inner edges of her thighs only striving to meet. She rolled forward in awkward rotation, roiling from her hips and back-side as I did! – So. Wow. I walk like a faux-fashion model without even trying!
I am AWESOME.
Day 4. I did a 2-mile walk exercise video with closing yoga stretches in my apartment hosted by Leslie Sansone. I even broke a sweat. I’m an athlete. I’m a yoga-lete. I’m a fashion model, yoga-lete walkin’ It off after the sociopath walks out. I AM Awesome. WE are AWESOME!
And, you know what? Now neuroscientists have proof: diets don’t work. Eat intuitively. Live intuitively. Trust out lives. Here’s a TED Talk all about it:
Time to Thrive!
Here’s to REAL True Love and Happiness!
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