Real
Tossing out my fat clothes, I bought a new pair of jeans, a fuchsia sheath dress, and a leather jacket to project an image of myself as playful, intelligent, warm and caring.
My old closet symbolized the weight of emotional crap I’d carried through my life. Three different sizes, things I’d purchased because nothing else was in my size, shoes that pinched, belts that held up nothing. I tossed the garments as if I were burning a bridge to keep the weight from creeping back onto my body.
Knowing bits and pieces of my weight loss story, Dorly asked. “Did you keep a pair of pants from before to show how much you’d lost?”
“No.” I didn’t want to be a poster of before and after when I was struggling with the now. “It’s not an image I want to see.”
“You’ve done a lot of hard work and this is your reward!” Even over the phone, Dorly’s voice resonated with encouragement and resonant joy.
The idea of rewarding myself was cringe-worthy. I’ve rarely sat with or relished the satisfaction of reaching a goal. Taking the time to reflect and celebrate made my skin crawl from the lack of self-confidence. To escape the burning itch, I’d change the finish line and stretch myself further into the Next Thing.
My weight loss goal was to improve my appearance and reduce my body aches. Was it a number on the scale or a magical place? I help other people draft their stories - yet, I had no concept if this moment was a beginning, middle or end.
I arrived at Dorly’s studio, wet and shivering from a pop-up storm. Inside, snuggled into her tufted gray couch, she handed me several fashion magazines. “Tell me if you see a makeup style or pose that speaks to you.”
As a creative person who finds inspiration everywhere, I couldn’t imagine myself as anyone in a magazine. The pages grew blurrier with each turn until I saw drips on the paper. I looked up to see if the roof was leaking only to find it was my own tears staining the paper. If I couldn’t feel myself crying, how would I EVER figure out how I wanted to feel, much less, look.
I pulled a crinkly tissue out of my purse and wiped away my liquid frustration before Dorly would see. I drew in several deep breaths while hoping the flush of my cheeks would subside. Then I remembered a line from my favorite book, The Velveteen Rabbit.
“You can’t become Unreal Again. It lasts for always.”
Dorly peeked out from her office. “Let’s see what you’ve found!”
I shrugged. “I need your help revealing the Real Me. It’s not something I’m going to find in a magazine.”
Dorly reassured me. “Your honesty and vulnerability with yourself is part of the transformation. You are as real as it gets and that is your story.”
She knew how to speak my language and tame my exploding anxiety.
As dappled light passed through the window sheers, Dorly pointed me in different directions. Look down, then up, shoulder forward, fewer teeth, and longer neck. Fluid. Easy.
I adore the pictures she took of me and I look at them daily as a practice of self-acceptance. In her extraordinary photography, I am reminded I exist and matter.
More than pounds lost, I am Real.
