Dinner at My Boyfriend’s Family’s

I was invited to a dinner thing my boyfriend, L’s, mother was throwing. So I head over after work. I’m the first one there, so when the next guest arrives, I go to help L control the dogs and open the door.

What’s the first thing L’s mom’s friend, K, says to me? “Have you lost weight?”

Seriously? My weight is that important to you? That it’s the first thing you notice and feel the need to comment on? The first thing you can think of to say to me? My weight?

But whatever. It gets better.

For some reason L and I were not immediately socializing with everyone. So when we walk into the kitchen, what are L’s mom and K talking about? Weight loss.

Seriously?

…Seriously???

There are soooooo many things in the world to be talking about, and you’re talking about weight loss in front of me? No one even tried to change the subject, either. They just kept blabbing away about what has worked for this person or that person. Oh, and this worked for L’s mom, A. Because everything’s so fuckin easy peasy for A. Just do this and this and don’t do this and you’re good.

My mom tried to tell me to let it go. That it didn’t mean anything. Well, it fuckin meant something to me. It hurt. A lot. There’s so much more to people than their weight, but that’s all they care about. They don’t even know half the shit I go through in my head every day. How impossible it is to deny my super-hunger and cravings, especially on top of everything else I deal with.

And y’know what? I treat A’s son like fuckin gold. Because I want to and he deserves it. That should be all that anyone cares about.

 

Can We Just Stop Killing People?

There’s this war in my head thanks to my parents and tumblr. Which side to be on. The police or the black people. Who’s in the right? Who was wronged? I have finally come to a conclusion.

LET’S JUST STOP FUCKING KILLING PEOPLE!!!~

Please?

I don’t see why the police can’t shoot the shooter’s shooting arm to injure it or something.

And stop the damn riots. They don’t do shit. Hate for hate only makes more hate. Martin Luther King, Jr. himself said something like that. Stop the protesting, stop the riots, just stop everything. Jesus. I’m so sick of hearing about these people or cops that got shot, and now these people are all pissed off about it. And on fb and tumblr all these fighting words for one side or the other. So much hate. Just…grow the fuck up and stop hating.

 

Talking about My Passions

I was on tumblr and saw a couple posts about talking to people about your passions. One talked about how sad it was that girls don’t usually do it without apologizing a lot because someone once told them that nobody cared. No one ever told me that nobody cared. No, I just knew that nobody cared. Because I grew up knowing no one liked what I liked. That I was a freak. Even among friends with the same interests, they didn’t offer time for me to go on some rave about what I liked or cared about. And to be honest, I didn’t really listen to them, either.

I remember one day, I was talking to someone about an original chacter of mine. I was so excited about her, but then I suddently stopped. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I get a little over-excited.” The woman I was talking to said I shouldn’t be sorry. She talked about how my eyes lit up and how wonderful it was.

I try to remember that, but I still don’t think anyone cares much. I never even bring anything up. I figure my book ideas, or explanations at least, are boring and people don’t want to hear about it. No one likes what I like. No one cares. People don’t want to hear it. They’re just being polite listening to me like they are.

So I guess that’s why I got used to keeping my stories inside. I don’t have this need to share my stories. I have no issue keeping them to myself. I am literally sharing them just because I want to profit from them. In more ways than one, of course. I want to actually be good at something. I want to believe that people actually do care about what I like and care about. I want a reason to rave about a character of my own. But if it were utterly impossible for me to do this, I wouldn’t be all too miserable about it. If I weren’t able to write . . . Well, maybe I would explode because I have so many feelings and opinions. But creatively? I’d be fine. Daydreaming gives me enough satisfaction.

Anyways, do you feel like you can share your passions with people? What stops you?

 

One of the Many Reasons I Hate Myself

Because I was babysitting tonight and the preschooler asked if I was pregnant.

“No, sweetie.”

“Then why is your belly so big?”

It’s not the first time a young child has made note of my fatness. And it devistates me. But obviously not enough to make me change my habits. Today, I tried so hard not to eat because I had to save my appetite for dinner with L. But I was really craving something soft to chew. Like a cupcake, or a soft cookie, or a PBJ sandwich. I’m saving the remaining cupcakes for L and me to eat together, so I opted for a PBJ sandwich even though I was beyond not hungry and, as I said, had to save my appetite. That was how badly I needed that sensory sesation. Whatever it’s called.

I had tried to avoid it. But you can only pet the dog for so long until it gets boring or even the dog gets sick of it. Or both.

Now, don’t go complaining about bad parenting or anything about these kids. It’s not their fault. They don’t know. They’re used to seeing average-sized people. Not fatsos like me.

 

You Don’t Care About Our Health

I’m trying. I really am. I’m trying to read other people’s perspectives when it comes to weight. People saying that we need to encourage healthy lifestyles, etc. But all I’m seeing is prejudice and ignorance.

You don’t care about our health. You really don’t. I can see it. I can see it in your faces. I can see it in your words. In your lack of research. In everything that’s missing in your narratives. I don’t care if you’re a coach, a med student, or whatever. You don’t care. Not when you talk like that.

You talk about food and exercise. That’s it. You talk about women. That’s it. You say things like “you broke the X-ray table.” If you care about my health, why do you shame me by reminding me that I broke the X-ray table?

Why do you look at me like that?

If you care about my health, why don’t you do some research? Things that affect weight. I seriously thought it was common knowledge that there were a myriad of things outside of food and exercise that affected weight. Obviously, I was wrong. And I’m sorely disappointed in my society because of that.

No, I’m not going to tell you the other things that affect weight. Because you don’t care. All you care about is how my weight makes you uncomfortable. You mask your voiced discomfort with concern for my health. It’s a thin mask. I see right through it. Stop acting like you care about my health.

Let’s say for a minute that you do care about my health. Guess what? It’s none of your business. My health is between me and my doctor. It’s my and my doctor’s problem. Not yours. So fuck off and get over it.

My weight makes you uncomfortable. That’s all there is to it. Get over it.

 

On My Days Off

I love my days off. But there’s one thing about my days off that I hate. I. Can’t. Focus.

God knows I have a million and one things I want to do. I want to read, I want to write, I want to edit, I want to blog. But I sit down and start something, work on it for, like, a few minutes, then lose my focus and have to walk away. Even when I’m on my meds! Now, if I were being paid for it, I might be able to make myself focus. But this is for pleasure. So, I’m not going to make myself keep doing something when I stop feeling like it. But, why do I suddenly stop feeling like it? Even though I enjoy it thoroughly?

Then sometimes I can’t even start something because I just don’t feel like it. Like, seriously? You love doing those things, Lacey!

Then, when I’ve left my thing out of sudden disinterest, I wander around bored looking to settle my carb cravings, though trying really hard not to. Today, my mom was successful, for a couple hours, in getting me out of the house to pick up the cause of my carb cravings (medication) and some presents for international friends. Jesus, Hallmark is expensive.

Is this my ADD? Do I need my meds upped? I should ask my doctor. Because I hate spending my days off like this. Where most of the day is wandering around bored when there are a ton of entertaining things I could be and want to be doing.