I jumped onto the scale the other day for my annual biometric screening at work and weighed in at on hundred and thirty-eight pounds.
This is the same weight as when fully pregnant with my 2nd child.
The same weight as when I had gotten “fat” during a relationship.
And now, at a relatively healthy mixture of muscles and fat distributed throughout my body.
A number that my previous 108 self would have cringed at.
A number representing three differing stories of my life.
What a silly people we are that we look at any number/category and judge ourselves by them.
Let us look at the human being instead.
I had originally tried to paint these numbers perfectly when I realized the ridiculousness of my efforts. This piece was about how we judge our “imperfections.” So I said, “Fuck that!” and went out of the box instead 🙂
The final version above has red dots added to turn each number into a human representation of my breasts during each story of my life. The number one being my skinny 108 story. Number three are my engorged breasts during pregnancy. And number eight is when I was “fat” and the belly protrudes further than the boob.
During each part of my life represented and all moments in between, I was no less a valuable human being than I am today with that “healthy mixture of muscles and fat.”
A Word on Coping Skills:
The week before and after Mother’s Day was unexpectedly tumultuous for me. As I mentioned in another blog (https://informinspirechange.wordpress.com/2015/03/01/the-death-of-my-mother/), I had removed myself from the toxic relationship from my mother back in February. One evening last week, I looked out of the window and saw an image which frightened me. As is my habit, I challenged myself to look at this image to understand it, not be afraid of it, and see the beauty in it. But I could not.
This saddened me a little, but I knew I could weather my inner storm. After all, I had done it many times already. I gave myself time and space to allow my emotions to happen and eventually they subsided, and I was able to make sense of what was troubling me.
I went back to my friend’s window to look at that image again. But I actually did not give it much pause. I turned away and worked on my painting idea instead. I look at the number 138 I had written on a post-it note and saw the image turn into the final version of my painting.
I mention this because my way of looking at things, the world we live in, is a side-effect of the neglect and psychological abuse of my childhood. I believe it is why I usually look at things with the glass half full (at least) attitude. There is always good in any situation; just like with ourselves and our bodies. It’s all in how we choose to look at things and what we focus on.