My friend Ali

The day I met Alicia, I knew I wanted to be her friend. She was wearing a cute hat, she was thin and adorable. We were introduced at the salad bar by the recruiter of the boarding academy and I over-compensated a little because I was so excited, interested, I wanted to get to know this brunette with big blue eyes. Her wheelchair might have been why I wanted to get to know her. It might have had nothing to do with it. But she rolled away, seeing what else the school had to offer and I made up my mind to befriend that cute girl in the wheelchair. The rest of that year was spent preparing for the girl in the wheelchair to attend the next year. Ramps were installed, handlebars in the downstairs dorm room that had a bathroom, everything Alicia might need. And the next year, there she was, getting all registered for school. I went right up to her and reintroduced myself. She didn't remember me at all, but that didn't deter me from forcing my way into her life. I bubbled over with words, with smiles, with introductions, opening up my circle of friends to fit her in.
I was so nervous. I wanted her to be my friend, so nervous someone else would swoop in and scoop her up. I went out of my way to make sure she felt included, felt like a part of my little group of weirdos. I remember the first time I hung out with her with my sister... She had this giant three wheeled bike that she would ride around and around the school, exercising her slowly failing legs. I saw her through my window and I quickly grabbed my little sister (a new little freshman herself), and ran out to walk along side her slow pedaling. I remember being nervous, not knowing what to talk about. She was such a shy person. I do remember never asking her why she was in a wheelchair. I never brought it up first. I just let other people ask when I was sitting next to her, babbling about nothing and smiling like an idiot.
My fear of her being stolen from me before I had a chance to get to know her was completely unfounded. I had this unshakable feeling that she was my treasure... someone I had to protect. And looking back, I cannot express how glad I am God put that on my heart. So quiet, so far from home, feeling like an alien, I don't know that anyone else would have committed to forcing her to open up to friendship.
I don't know when we became best friends. It felt instantaneous. Suddenly she was part of every meal, every rec, every memory. I would ride to the church on her lap, her motorized wheelchair wheezing under the weight of two flirty girls giggling their way past their peers. She would ask us to help her stand for music during church, and she was always freezing during the sermon, so I would rub her feet and hands and try to keep her warm. And then on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, we would take a blanket out to the front yard or the back yard or the football field and lie in the sun surrounded by our friends, knitting and reading, listening to each other's music, flirting with the cute boys and making those perfect memories.
I don't think it took me long to turn her from Alicia into Ali... Princess Ali... Ali-Cat... she was mine. One of my best friends.  Nor did it take us long to name her chair, name her bike... we took her and her chair and her oddities and her differences in, we took them in and made them all a part of our little friendship family. She helped me woo the boy I liked and we used to pretend we were the parents of our group... she would call us mommy and daddy and it was so much fun.
Whenever we needed to do something for school, a field trip or whatever, she knew she had us to count on. Every night for evening worship, I would put her on my back and carry her up the stairs. She didn't have to worry about asking for help because we were there to help her. I remember carrying her on my back along the beach... to the river... She got to ride a four wheeler, and so I got to ride a four wheeler.
There is so much I love about Ali... her humor, her love, her patience, her kindness, her gentle and unending faith in God.
When I finally opened up and let myself ask her questions about why she was in a wheelchair... I think that was when I really discovered how deeply our friendship ran. I remember a day where we were sitting on her bed, she was lying in my lap with her head on my chest, crying about losing her mobility. Crying about a boy she liked. Crying about something bigger than I could really comprehend, but wanted so badly to heal. She has a timeline. She knows how long her life will be. To know, everyday, that you lose a little more of what you can do for yourself, is a terrible burden to bear. And holding her against me, petting her hair, wishing I could do SOMETHING, I could see her heartbeat in her throat. Fluttering there. So strong, so sure, so... permanently fragile. And I imagined being there, in that same position, holding my dearest friend at 35... 40... 45 if we're truly lucky... watching that fluttering as it died away. And I cried. And she told me that I would make a great mother some day. I don't think I had ever really thought about how much I wanted to be a mom until that day.
Every day of being her friend, I am proud of her. I am thankful that I have a friend so wonderful as Ali, so willing to let me in. A million amazing memories with a girl who has changed me in so many ways.

"I've heard it said

That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...
Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good."

-For Good, Wicked

Not every moment is brushed with gold, we bickered about silly things, I would get irrationally mad about this and that. She started dating the boy I had been wanting her to date since the year before, but she told someone else first. I held a grudge for a long time. I wanted to be most important, like most friends do... I was jealous and mean sometimes because I didn't know how to deal with my own feelings. I would sometimes be mad because she didn't say thank you, not thinking about the fact that it was so hard for her to not be able to do things for herself. And when we both started dating boys, we would focus on ourselves and not prioritize the other one as much as we should. Ever single fight, I regret. Every single moment of anger wasn't worth clogging up my memories of her. 

She got married not long after we graduated from high school. I came to stay with her before her wedding, sleeping next to her, holding her hand as she got her eyebrows waxed, so happy and proud of her. I was in her wedding, sobbing my eyes out as her father carried her down the aisle. She was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen. 

I was in Guam when she told me she was pregnant. I was so excited, so hopeful... and so filled with fear. She was weaker than she was in high school. She was sick... so sick. She had only reasons to be afraid and worry, but every time I talked to her, every time we skyped... she was hopeful. She would tell me, "I will worry and mourn when I have a reason to." When she found out her baby had Turner's Syndrome, she named her. She prayed. She was prayed and prayed and prayed. And her husband did whatever he could to make sure she was taken care of. He left his job and moved her in with her parents so she would be safe. Hooked up to IVs and sicker than anyone should have to be... She'd call me. And we'd laugh and talk and hope and pray. And when she lost the baby, we cried. 

5 months... 10 short weeks away from her c-section date. I think what killed her the most was that as soon as the baby was out of her, she felt well again. Her sickness was gone, her appitite was back. She could keep her fluids down. I did everything I could. I poured as much love through that computer screen as ever has been poured. It wasn't enough. It could never have been enough. I sent her a care package and I begged God to give me the wisdom to know how to be there for her. And I reminded her over and over again that she was a mother no matter what, forever... she was a mother. All around her, friends and family were giving birth to healthy babies. And she had to mourn her's. I couldn't heal her. 

I am so powerless in her life. I have so little to give her. But I want to remind her every day that she is so important to me. So loved. And that no matter what, I am no farther than a phone call away. 

Too fat to be pretty

Let me just preface this by saying my husband is such a loving, wonderful, devoted man. But... he is a man. A white man. Raised in a society that entitles white men. And despite that, he has managed to grow up strong, gentle, kind, and mostly open-minded. But, he is not always immune to the idiocy or douche-baggery commonly found in today's world. He'd human. Even the loveliest person will occasionally be a stupid jerk-face.

So. On to the story.

We were in the mall and he decided he wanted to go into American Eagle (a store where I fit the shoes and that is all... not that I would buy anything from there anyway) and there were these very hot young ladies shopping and working there. The reason I noticed was because, earlier that day, Petal had made a passing comment that may have made me key into what he idealized as "legitimately hot", and balancing on my own insecurity, maybe I was ready to notice any comparative action on his part. As soon as we walked in, Petal drops my hand. It wasn't as if he needed it for shopping purposes. It felt very pointed. But I felt "ok, maybe I'm reading into this." and tried to shake off this feeling that I was too large, to chubby... the girls working could eyeball me and know I wouldn't fit anything in the store. I just wished I felt like I belonged. I followed my husband to the back of the store, he poked around the men's clothing a little, and then turned to leave. I reached out and tried to take his hand again, sure he wouldn't need it for shopping or anything, since we were on our way out... but he kind of snakes it away from me. I'm instantly hurt, and we walk out without exchanging any words. We're several stores away when he reaches for my hand again and I go, "Oh, so now you want to hold my hand?" And he looks at me inquisitively and confused. "Now there aren't any hot girls around?" And he kind of chuckles and says, "Oh is that what I was doing? I didn't notice." In this very casual... act-dumb-to-get-out-of-trouble way.

At this point, I'm still in a semi-agreeable mood. It's mostly in my head. I have no reason to believe my husband would genuinely not want to hold my hand in front of hot girls... After all, we're married. I just NEEDED him to hold my hand because I was feeling so insecure. It wasn't his fault he didn't realize it. But, based on what he's just said... based on the comment earlier that day about his friend going on a date from a girl he met online that never would have worked out because she was "legitimately hot"... based on a hundred unsaid compliments and my own longing to feel beautiful, worthy, loved... The culmination of all these things has lead me to have these deep secret beliefs about him, and suddenly it feels like I have an opportunity to talk to him about it.

So. I say, through a clenched throat, that I feel deep down, in some inexpressible place inside him, he doesn't think I'm thin enough to be pretty.

And the confident side of me, the prideful side, the side that would never genuinely believe something so hurtful and detrimental to my self-worth, believes that this will be instantly swatted away. Even if he has to lie. Because who would ever admit that they wished their most beloved, the person who loves them most in all the world... isn't as sexy to them as they are to you?

But that is not what happened.

What happened was a conversation that was not fun. A conversation where he admitted he would think I was prettier if I were thin. Because that's the body type he's always been attracted to. The girls he liked in high school were athletic. The girls he likes in Hollywood weigh 100 pounds nothing. The media has told him what to find attractive and she looks a lot like half of me.

None of this is mean. None of it is meant to hurt, or to offend. He's talking to me honestly... even if it's a little brutal. He loves me, he reminds me over and over again. But there is a part of him that wishes I was a stick with giant boobs.

I am in tears because I understand. He's not a bad person. It's just this yucky thought... A thought that should never have been expressed.

He would never ever put pressure on me to lose weight. He would never ever be mean or rude or try to push me to exercise or diet. He would never say, "You look fat in that" or make me feel less than beautiful. Not on purpose. But it's under the surface. It's where my mind goes if I've put on a nice dress for him and he doesn't compliment me. Or flirt. Or engage in public as much as I wish he would. It's not in what he does, but what he doesn't do.

And on the one hand, it's wonderful that he can be so honest, open and frank about how he feels. But on the other... it's a super problematic mindset to have, and we have to address it if we want to have a close and loving relationship.

Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that I just have to deal with it and get over it. I can't change him. I don't really want to change him either. And if I physically change myself, throw myself into extreme diets and exercise it would be so detrimental to my mental health. I do want to change, but my mindset has to change first. For me... I have to fall in love with me just the way I am. I am healthy. I walk 1.7 miles almost every day. I keep a clean home and lots of delicious food in in the pantry and in the fridge. I take excellent care of our pets, and one day, I'm going to be an awesome mom. I am not huge. And I'm not small. I am me. And lovable as myself.

The hurt that I felt toward his thoughtless words has started to evaporate. He admitted to me later that it wasn't something he likes about himself. He's not proud of this dumb thought that he barely pays attention to. And while it is there, there are so many things that he loves about me. So I made him tell me 10 of them a day for a week. To buoy me up and fill me with good stuff. At first, I made it a point to tell him all the ways each of the things he loves about me would be different or nonexistent if I were thin, mostly to make myself feel better, but eventually I stopped that and it turned into me basking in the glow of his adoration. A friend asked me if I returned the favor and I giggled and said "No... I compliment him all the time. I'm very thoughtful. He's less so." Sometimes it's ok to ask for something without owing someone something back, especially when it comes to feeling loved. And especially after a big hurt.

But I've thrown myself into loving my chub. I don't care if he might actually treat me like a queen if I were thin, I can treat myself like a queen right now. And maybe if I lose my insecurity, if I commit myself to feeling good when I look in the mirror, maybe he'll love me better for it too.

A while ago I wrote a poem about feeling in love with someone who loves unconditionally, and for a few days I couldn't look at the poem because it felt like a lie... but yesterday, I illustrated it and reposted it to claim it as a promise to love myself unconditionally and remind my husband what that meant too. But I decided to change the words just a little... From "Me and My" to "I and him". He told me that one of the things he loves best about me is that I love him just the way he is. And that was so incredible to him, that he strives every day to do the same for me. And in a lot of ways, I was his love role model. Now... how awesome is that? Who could ask for anything more?

I love my love

I love my love fat and happy. 

I love my love curled on the couch, watching crappy television shows.

I love my love mouth filled with chips, laughing and spewing.

I love my love undressed, rolls of guilty pleasure pounds, late night snacks stacked on his hips.

I love my love angry, screaming, ranting, pissed.
I love my love sobbing, tears mixed with snot, face red with sorrow, blotched and unlike the perfect tears of Hollywood.
I love my love stupid, questions asked without thinking, misunderstandings and confusion.
I love my love quiet, nose tucked in a book or doodling.
I love my love loud, making too much noise and laughing like a snorting rhino.
I love my love silly, fingers poked in ribs and face pulled in unfortunate expressions.
I love my love serious, with no mischief on his mind.
I love my love's folds, his ins and his outs, his shorts and rounds.
I love my love imperfect, unreserved, unkempt.
How sad is the love that loves conditionally, with reigned passion and lists of expectations.
How sad is the love that ends with weight gain, with job loss, with change.
How sad is the love that destroys each other, that expects devotion, that takes without return.
I love my love with abandon.
With joy.
With grace and mercy.
I love my love the way movies forget to show love.
The way friends love.
The way God loves.
And with every moment of imperfect perfection he can feel the heart beat of my love repeating messages of steadfast loyalty.
I know that I love him forever.
Just as I know...
He loves me.