4 little pictures

"You're looking really tiny these days."
"Look at you! You've lost so much weight!  You're tiny!"
"You're lookin' hot girl.  What have you been doing?"

These are direct quotes from the last 24 hours of my life.
They are intended as compliments.
But they scare me.
My first feeling is guilt.  Then I wonder,
"Am I ok?"
I am not intending to loose weight,
"Am I lying to myself?  Do I think I'm eating but I'm really not?"
I have not weighed myself in 10 years, but that doesn't mean measurements do not find me.

My response is always some nonsense about how,
"I don't know why...I work out less now then I ever have in my life.  (Which is true)  It must be from chasing and carrying kids all day cuz I don't do anything special, really.  My Grandma said she never had to work out when she had little kids because she was always running around with her little boys.  Now I know what she was talking about."

Awesome, Sarah.

I'm sure they really needed that whole explanation.
Why can't you just say thank you.

Because I am scared.  Guiltly and scared, so I feel that I have to explain myself.
And I cannot take their compliment as intended.
I haven't learned how to do that yet.
Also, it's hard to say thank you when I am not grateful.
The truth is, I wish they would not say anything.
I wish they would keep their judgements about the value of my body to themselves.
But that will never happen.
I never make comments about other people's bodies.
Ever.
It is not my business, and it is not my place to judge another person's body.
I've wasted enough time competing with the rest of the population.
Now I aspire to see other things in the people around me.

Of course - I still do the automatic scan.
"Are they skinnier than me?  Have they gained or lost weight since the last time I saw them?  Does my ass look like that?"
But I can quickly dismiss it, just as I do the impulse to ram a car in front of me when they drive too slow, or to smack my kid and make them stop crying.  Not trustworthy instincts, obviously.

But the comment that hurt most was one made by my husband.  I came home from Vegas with this strip of pics in my wallet.  My daughter Sophie and I escaped an akward moment at dinner with her team-mates and popped into a photo booth.  We found it nestled in a corner of the casino's blasting arcade.
She was struggling with feeling left out by her friends.   I was seated across the table from my x-husband, and her Dad. My eyes burning with tears that needed release.  Not because I missed him, but because I realized that we never get to parent Sophie together.  She never gets to be adored by both of her parents at the same time.  This was the first time, and she deserved it, and we can rarely give it to her.  Too much.  There was just too much going on in that red vinyl booth.  We were both about to pop.
Our eyes met.
"Wanna go for a walk?"  I sparkled at her.
Wide cheshire grin, "Ya."
"We'll be back!"  We chimed in unison, and bolted.

After the pictures we walked with arms about each other's waist through the casino.
We both had the tears on our lashes, but they were not tragic anymore.
They were simply human and we had grins to go with them.
She looked up at me as we rode the escalator down and smiled.
She leaned her head into my torso.

When I got home from the trip and showed the pics to my husband he said,
"You look sick."
I deflated.
It wasn't an accusation, he said it with concern, and rightfully so.
Maybe I was.  The truth is, I struggled to eat on that trip.  I got slammed with more emotion than I expected.  I was traveling with a man whom I used to be married to.  He is Sophie's Dad and he's very good at it.  I was in mourning all over again.  Then at the same time immensely grateful that we were there together supporting her.  After all my worry for her well-being when we got divorced, she is okay.  The whole weekend was a paradox of pain and joy and reverence.  But the pain made it hard to eat.
"Really?"  I wimpered, "That was a pretty important moment for me."

He didn't mean to hurt me, I'm certain.  He was just trying to tell me the truth.
I will fluctuate.  My ability to eat healthy is still growing, and sometimes, it is not there at all.
People's arbitrary judgements of my exterior stand to rob me of what I know about myself.
But they don't have to.
I know I am doing my best, and that my best is not consistent.
I suppose I'm just scared because I don't want to go back.
I don't want to pretend I am well when I am not.
I'm afraid I'll forget how to be honest, and I will find myself in the cage again, looking out and wondering how I got there.  It has happened before.
My hope is - to write and feel and eat and question and stay free.