Double Dates in Paradox

 I spent too long on that title and I don't even know if I like it. 

That's also how I felt about my job today.

I work for my dad, and I don't know if that makes it better. It didn't make it better when I was throwing up in the employee bathroom. Anxiety makes me nauseous. Pain makes me nauseous. Thinking about pain and worrying that I am too anxious about my pain makes me nauseous. Having the worst period of my life when all I want is a baby... pain, anxiety, nauseous. 

Working for my dad makes me feel connected to some ideal of small-town America that doesn't seem possible outside of Andy Griffith and the Brady Bunch. I enjoy it on days when I am not battling sickness and negative pregnancy tests. 

I enjoy listening to people talk about my dad. His patients adore him- and rightly so. He makes them feel remembered, heard, cared for, and in people's scariest moments; he is the one fighting for them. People come into his office heavy with hours of prayer and fear; they leave with answers; a plan, spoken by a kind man who is made of the sturdy, solid, dependable things of this world. Honesty. Intelligence. Confidence. All with a willingness to hold the hand of the old ladies whose years have somehow made their bones too large for their small frames. 

I work here to watch and to help his efforts toward this community. 

So, though today lasted too long and I was sick, there was still magic. 

One woman brought scones to thank us. 

Another, a handwritten note to say "Thank you" to the doctor.

I answered the phone to a man made of stone, calling for resolution on a bill, only to hear him soften as he explained, "call me back at this number. The number for my wife is, uh, no good... She passed on the 28th-" his voice cracked, "- you know, she loved Dr. Moody. He did so much for her. Thank you." 

My neighbor came in today. 

My aunt bought the home he and his late wife used to share. He now lives in an assisted living neighborhood down the road. He watched me grow up. When he walked through the door, I rushed to the lobby to give him a hug and gush about how good it was to see him. He's always had the kindest voice. 

He told me he was "permanently engaged" to a sweet woman who used to live next door to me. I was honest in saying I was happy for them both. I gave him my phone number. "My husband and I want to take you and your fiance out to lunch, just give me a call." He beamed at me. He said he'd love to. 

The next woman to check in had a story to tell. She mentioned her sisters, then explained she'd been one of 17 children. She'd married young. Her husband had passed four years ago. She was in love again. He was just parking the car now, but he'd be in soon to keep her company in the waiting room.  "You and I can go out to lunch, too. And I can tell you more about my life." I smiled, surprised, "I'd like that." 

Between these interactions, I was sick. Nervous. And when my mind begins running, everything comes with it. 

My body is not what it was the last time I lived here. A failed marriage, chronic illnesses, two years of undiagnosed asthma, a pandemic, a broken foot, and daily struggles with PTSD has left me heavier than I have ever been. I'm thankful in one sense; I'm finally over the worst of it and I am seeing improvements. I've begun to lose weight. I can walk longer distances. I can work out without seeing black spots or struggling to breathe (most of the time). I finally feel like I have enough control to take control. But the way I look right now feels so different than how I looked in high school, when I last saw so many of these people. 

The distance between photos of myself from before and the mirror now... It feels too far to reach the other side. 

The joy that comes from seeing a neighbor from years ago struggles to stay bright in the midst of loud voices in my head... "I bet he'll wonder what happened to me... I really let myself go." the internal shunning from my own self-condemnation, making false assumptions about the sweet man before me. No one is safe; family, enemy, stranger, or friend. Everyone has a script in my mind, deciding that I do not measure up. Wondering how I could let myself look the way I do now. Pitying me while condemning my lack of self-control... I couldn't be worthy of respect if I didn't have enough for myself to keep me from plus-sized clothing. 

I catch myself thinking my story would be more powerful if it had affected me less. If I'd come out more beautiful, without scars, without extra weight, without chronic illnesses or nightmares. Or, even if I had all of those things except the weight. If I could've kept myself thinner, then I'd have a better story to tell. 

And now, with every negative pregnancy test, the voice in my head sounds wry, "you're too fat to love a baby. You don't deserve one if you can't even keep yourself healthy. And think of your husband! The poor guy should leave you for becoming a disgusting stereotype. Save him the guilt of leaving a baby and its fat mother."

Today, when I threw up, I felt less worthy of empathy because I am not thin. I felt grotesque. As if I'd heard the world's sigh of relief because I can't be gaining weight and throwing up at the same time. 

I agree with the trending message of our generation: Love Yourself.

But it does feel like it would feel easier to love myself if there was less of me to love. I've always felt that way, even when I struggled with anorexia. It is difficult to sort through. 

I do know it is harder to feel hatred toward myself when the people around me are kind. Even if the kindness isn't necessarily toward me. 

A handwritten note to thank a doctor. A faithful husband closing the affairs of the wife he loved and lost. Scones from a stranger. New love and second chances. 

These are the things that make life beautiful. These things would not be more beautiful if the people experiencing and sharing were more aesthetically pleasing. 

That sentence feels grossly shallow to write and read again. 

I don't know how I fit in this place of magic with my heart of shadows. 

But I'm glad to be here. 

So, I'll keep showing up. And I'll keep saying "yes" to lunch dates. I'll take opportunities to be light for others the way they are for me. And maybe that's what will help me to quiet the voices, too.

I spent the day split between contradictions; wondering how it still felt like poetry; hoping I'll grow up soft and gentle and kind to others and to myself. It will take time to continue to grow in gentleness and joy. But, I want to. 

I'm glad to be here.

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