I'm not fat, Part II

[This is a follow-up to this post.]

Remember when I said I was a "wise 17-year-old" and thus able to push out negative thoughts about being *gasp* FAT when I had 1% above average body fat?

Upon further reflection, I wasn't just naturally wise in this instance. I was strong, and moderately capable of fending off negative thoughts about my body, but see, I had help.

I've never suffered an eating disorder or had extremely damaging body issues; I've had my short forays into self-hatred and moderate food deprivation, but they always began as accidental and I was able to pull myself out before things got too intense. And I credit this, partially, with the beginning -- how I began my life -- the person who responded to me the first time I uttered the words "I'm fat." -- my mom.

I can't quite remember how it started, but I was crying in the bathroom of my parents' master bedroom; my mom sat on the floor and quietly waited for me to spit it out [My mother long ago realized that I would only share information after sometimes hours of failed attempts, tears, and patient waiting on her part.]. When I finally said it, her immediate reaction was, I imagine, the kind of reaction that every little or not-so-little girl [I may have been 7 or 8?] needs when she starts understanding the cultural pressure she's under to fit into a very narrow box of ideal beauty.

She told me I was beautiful. God had given me a beautiful body, and he'd made it especially for me, and he admired and loved both it and me -- as did she.

Later on, when I was around 15, perhaps, I ended up in the doctor's office with her, trying to figure out what the half-sentence he'd just spit out meant, but she hadn't let him finish, so I was at a loss. I asked her later and she told me that he was going to tell me I needed to lose weight, but I didn't, and no doctor was going to tell her kids to go on a diet when they didn't even need one.

My mom never seemed to care what the world told her about her kids; indeed, we all spent the better part of our childhood on the small end of the size charts, a fact that prompted many doctors to instruct my mother to switch from breastfeeding to formula, an instruction she happily ignored. [isn't that silly? birth = your kid is too small. puberty = your kid is too big.] She was simply unconcerned with size charts, BMIs, and, essentially, doctors.

To this day, she will not allow me to say I was fat in high school. Before I stopped saying it, I'd meant it as a joke, mostly, but I was still using it in a self-disparaging manner, and she wouldn't allow it. I wasn't fat, I'd never been fat, I've always been beautiful in her eyes. And I really wasn't fat; I was 5'3", 145, 38D. I certainly don't look fat in photos -- my face is just a little rounder, mostly. You can argue over whether or not she should have just said "Who cares if you're fat? You're delightful at any weight" but the fact that I was not, in any way, fat, made her choose her particular approach, and it did well.

These days, when it comes up, I say I was a little chubby in high school, or simply that I'm about 20 pounds lighter than I was at 18 [I'm also an inch taller, so it often appears to be more than 20lbs.]. I didn't do it on purpose, nor am I maintaining it on purpose; who the hell knows why I was a well below-average infant, then a slightly below-average child, then a slightly above-average teenager, and now have become pretty much average? Since I've never dieted in my life or had any chronic illness that might alter my height and weight, I can only assume that this is the path my body wanted to take. She's pretty damn happy where she is right now, and she only changes if and when she wants to. And we're ok with that. We're happy together.

And I'm pretty much blaming my mom for all of this. She did her goddamned best to inspire a healthy self-image, and there is no question in my mind that her behavior early in my life is primarily how I was able to counteract the negative effects of living in this ridiculous world. I'm not perfect; nobody is. But I'm a lot closer to 100% loving my body, with very little effort on my part, than I would be had my mom not been the awesome mother she was.

Sisters and brothers, Part II

Something else I don't think people quite get is the level of secrecy, trust, and all-around reliance I have with my siblings. See, if you leave out the two youngest kids, nobody's ratted anyone out to my parents in at least 5 years. You have to leave out the two youngest because they're 11 and 14 and still into tattling on each other, but for the purposes of this discussion, they're not important.

So, 5 years (at least). We do not tell our parents each other's secrets. Period.

From my dealings with those who have fewer than 4 siblings, I've noticed that, occasionally, you might tell your sister something in confidence and she ends up telling your mom -- to get back at you for something, I guess.

We do not do that. The 5 oldest children in my family make up a tight circle of undying trust and secrets and dark shadowy pasts -- and none of these ever leave the circle. We do not tell our parents, we do not tell our two youngest siblings (because we don't trust them to enter the circle yet), we do not tell our friends, we do not tell our significant others [I think; this has yet to be tested in my case.].

This circle is so tight that, recently, I was told something by One, sworn to secrecy, and did not even bring it up with Three through Five* until checking with One to see who she'd told. S-One** does not believe in this circle of trust, and thinks that if One tells somebody something, soon everyone in the entire family, parents included, will know about it, but the previous example should demonstrate the folly of this viewpoint. If I'm not talking about One's secret with Four until I'm damn sure she's already heard about it from One, there's no way our parents are getting involved, even accidentally.

*We have an odd way of looking at ourselves in that we sometimes refer to each other as our sibling order in numerical form. Ex: I am the second child, hence I am Two. Sex has no bearing on this order, so Jim, the fifth child but first son, is still Five. This system is related to the Baby System (more on that later) and also spawned Odds and Evens [if you can't figure it out, I'm not bothering to explain it to you]. This was also very handy for clandestinely referring to Six and Seven in their hearing -- until they were old enough to figure it out, unfortunately.

**S-One is, not in any way intuitively [which is why I'm explaining it], the spouse of One. He is older than One, and so could bump One out of the one spot, but it was decided by a 5-1-1 vote that this method of adjustment would get inanely complicated with the addition of each new spouse; additionally, it is silly to refer to people as one thing for their entire lives up to the point of marriage then abruptly change that label [this portion of the resolution was approved unanimously]. We went with spouse instead of husband/wife for simplicity; we wanted S1 to be obviously One's husband as S5 is obviously Five's wife and not muddle things up with H1/W5 -- also the original system ignored sex, so, parity. We also had to deal with the arrival of One's children, which resulted in 1.1, 1.2, and 1.3 [my children will be 2.1, 2.2 etc.]. Depending on how ridiculous our kids turn out to be, this could get really complicated, really fast [i.e. my great-grandkid could end up being 2.1.4.3].***

***When I refer to votes, agreements, and decisions, I am not speaking metaphorically or of tacit general agreement. We actually sat down and worked this shit out.

On sisters and brothers and ... brothers and sisters

I've talked about siblings before on Ye Olde El-Jay (if you are unfamiliar with Ye Olde El-Jay, don't even bother asking, because I don't give that shit out anymore. trust me, everyone's better off this way.), but I'm feeling the urge to bring it up again. Y'know, because I'm lame about my siblings.

See, here's the thing: I'm not entirely sure anyone, anywhere, period, has a similar sibling relationship. Most people have one or two siblings, three max, and as a result can afford the luxury of saying "my sister" and assuming everyone knows who they're talking about, because they only have one sister. Me? I gotta use names, straight up, as soon as I meet you, or pretty soon you're going to be royally confused -- and by "pretty soon" I mean as soon as I use all of the following sentences in the span of about 5 minutes:

1. I was talking to my sister the other day, and she told me the Navy won't authorize new glasses because there's no date on the prescription she got in boot camp.


2. My sister was dating this South African guy for a while but now I guess they're just friends with benefits?


3. I can't believe the goddamn Air Force is making me fucking register before they'll let me on base to see my sister graduate boot camp.


4. My sister called me a slutbag when I told her I'd made out with over 30 individuals, and told me kissing was gross, so I had to point out that she'd never actually done it and therefore didn't know what she was talking about.

Yes, those are four separate individuals. These examples aren't nearly as indicative of the mass confusion I've occasionally wrought on friends and neighbors through omitting names, but they'll do.

So there's that. I have a lot of siblings (4 sisters and 2 brothers, if you cared.), so I deal with certain logistical considerations that are absent from most sibling relationships. (In case you were making the reasonable assumption that it's difficult to keep track of who said what to whom in my family, it's actually not -- not remotely. more on that later.)

Next: I've noticed that people with few siblings tend to have more concentrated relationships with them. By that, I mean that if you have just one sister, you're more likely to either be

1. Best friends, or


2. Mortal enemies who still probably love each other.

Either she's your rock, your fortress, the one person you can't live without, or she's the bane of your existence and you've been competing for the affection of your parents your entire lives. Either way, you're more likely to have extremely focused sets of ongoing fights, private jokes, or continuous annoyances.

Whereas I have four sisters, so everything gets spread out. If I fight with one sister, that leaves three I'm not fighting with; I will fight with the others at some point in the future, but the odds of fighting with all of them at the same time are extremely low. Hence, fewer fights per head at any given moment. Additionally, if I'm just cruisin' for a bruisin' and take it out on whoever I happen to run into first (let's face it, this happens a lot in sibling fights), the odds of that person being the same person every single time I'm cruisin' for a bruisin' are also quite low. It's impossible to be mad at everyone at the same time; it just takes a lot of energy and effort and nobody wants to do that. It's a lot easier to be generically angry at one sibling.

And we don't hold on to grudges. Sure, we've got private jokes that literally span decades, but fights? We don't have time for that shit. You fuck up, you apologize, you move on. There are too many of us to hold on to that sort of thing if we still want to all hang out, and there are few things more enjoyable and fulfilling than hanging out with all of my siblings at the same time.

Additionally, starting out with so many siblings allows for a "the more, the merrier!" kind of attitude. There are already so many of us that we have no problem "adopting" new sisters and brothers. As of this writing, I can think of at least 8 unrelated girls/women and 3 unrelated boys/men that my mom is willing to introduce as "one of my other daughters/sons", either because of her direct relationship with them or their friendship with -- and subsequent frequent geographical association with -- one of her biological children. (note: none of these adopted siblings got that way by being solely my friend, as i was a rather unsociable child and upon reaching adulthood have continued to refrain from including my friends in my parents' lives.)

Maybe you'll never truly understand, but I suppose that's ok. I'll just keep blathering on about it, and perhaps someday you'll get an inkling.

Male bonding[?]

I think my dad likes my boyfriend.

This conclusion began, naturally, with a snowbank, and ended, naturally, with bass amps.

Shall I explain? (yes, absolutely, we'd love to hear your fascinating yet pointless story!!!1!one!)

Oh, all right.

***

My boyfriend first encountered my dad at my niece's birthday party. They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries; Dad regaled Boyfriend with an explanation of the YouTube video he'd seen recently about punching people in the face when threatened. We then left the party, wisely allowing ourselves extra time to meet back at my sister's house for cake, because we wanted to fuck in the car go to a record store. My sister asked us to stop for ice cream; we agreed.

Fast forward to the road leading from the log cabin I'd grown up in. We were fucking stuck in a snow bank.

Let me explain (again); this was the first time Boyfriend had visited my homeland, so I'd been keenly pointing out landmarks both in (this is where my mom washed my mouth out with soap the one and only time i said something horrible enough to warrant it) and out (when i was about 10 we stood right here and threw pinecones in front of passing cars -- pinecones, not rocks, and in front of, not at, despite what the irate motorist told my mom after barrelling up the driveway) of my parents' house. My older sister happens to currently reside in the same neighborhood as the cabin we left when I was 7, so I wanted to show Boyfriend the only other house I'd been a child in.

Bad idea, as apparently Boyfriend's low-riding car does not do well on snow-covered mountain roads -- especially not ones that rarely see the sun in the winter.

Also a bad idea was heeding my dad's voice in my head, which proclaimed you can totally make it. just barrel through that shit. it can't handle you, Mountain Girl.

Apparently, it could indeed handle me.

While I was kind of just laughing and having a casual cigarette and calling my sister to let her know that yes, we were on our way with the ice cream, but unfortunately were also stuck in a snowbank, and would she please send someone with a crane to pull us out, or at least just a little brother with a snow shovel, Boyfriend was in kind of a panic. See, he's more observant than I am, and a little more normal, and immediately noticed that as yet, his only interactions with my father were 1) 2 minutes of meaningless social pleasantries, and 2) I have marooned your daughter in the forest due to my wilfully ignoring my car's capabilities and am now forced to inconvenience you and your entire family. You're going to kill me, aren't you?

His anxiety was multiplied by a factor of four by his own personal Girlfriend's Dad Theory, which is that while your girlfriend's dad shakes your hand and claims it's nice to meet you and asks you things about yourself and is generally pleasant, inside he's just thinking you do naked things to my daughter you son of a bitch i will fucking kill you and bury your dismembered body in my backyard you fucking bastard you'd better run for your life

This is not, really, an odd thing for a boyfriend to think; I've just never heard it before.

Anyway, my dad and little brother showed up with a truck and a snow shovel and succeeded in pulling us out, but not before my dad got to tramp around the car, assess the situation, talk it over with Boyfriend and Little Brother, try to push it out while I fruitlessly revved the engine, back the truck up the road to position it for towing, and pull out his multitool, take off his glasses, and fiddle with the hook in the chain in order to properly attach it to the underside of Boyfriend's car.

I say "got to" because my dad, oddly enough (to you, anyway), thoroughly enjoys pulling vehicles out of snowbanks. I was not remotely worried over getting stuck, because I knew my dad would get us out; he can get anything out of a snowbank. Furthermore, I was not remotely worried about inconveniencing my dad, because few things make him happier than being inconvenienced in order to perform anything remotely resembling pulling a vehicle out of a snowbank. I tried to convey this to Boyfriend, but, understandably, he was in the throes of BoyfriendAnxiety and didn't believe me.

Dad was markedly happier upon our triumphant arrival at my sister's house -- and my mom actually thanked me for cheering him up.

I'm still not sure Boyfriend believes all the stories we told him -- including one from my dad about how he purchased that tow cable specifically for that particular road, upon getting the Scout stuck circa 1985.

***

There is an end to this story, which, naturally, involves bass amps, but it's pretty much just "Dad and Boyfriend talked about bass amps and enjoyed said bass amp conversation."

So, yeah.

I am a piece of a beautiful puzzle

I often get the feeling that people think growing up in a big family is all bad. I won't go through all the reasons I hear on a regular basis; I'm sure you have also heard them.

I also won't go into whether or not it's socially and/or environmentally irresponsible to bring seven children into the world. No. Do not even try to go there, as anything you bring up at this point (when the seven children are already in the world) will essentially be a reason why I or any one of my six siblings should not be alive, and not only will I not tolerate any suggestion along those lines, it's just a completely moot point. My parents are done having kids. It's irrelevant to pretty much everything whether they should have had as many as they did or not. Feel free to discuss that--elsewhere.

Moving on.

I would like to walk you through a thought experiment. Pick your favorite sibling; if you do not get along with your siblings or are an only child, think of your best friend.

Think about that person for a moment.

Think about how you have fun with them, how you can laugh yourself silly over nothing at all, how you think of them at random times because you heard a song on the radio or something, how you'd love to just drop everything to spend the whole day with them, how you know you can call them at 4 am if you need them, how they know everything about you and have been there your whole life, and if you ever needed a kidney they'd fucking tear theirs out with a spoon for you.

Think about that, and now think about the fact that I have six people that fit that description. SIX. If I ever needed a kidney, I'd have six fucking kidneys lined up for me. If all six were a match for me, I would have six people fighting over who got to give me their kidney.

And every single one of them is different. I have a very special, very unique relationship with each one of my six siblings, and none of them in any way replace any of the others.

If I want to talk about children, there's a sister for that.

If I want to talk about sex, there are two sisters for that.

If I want to talk about snowboarding, there's a brother and two sisters for that.

If I want to talk about physics, there's a sister and a brother for that.

If I want to talk about sports, there's a sister and two brothers for that.

If I want to talk about young adult literature of the late 19th century, there's a sister for that.

I could go on forever.

Indoctrination is...

Indoctrination is presenting opinions as fact.

Indoctrination is presenting conclusions as facts without providing the evidence that led to those conclusions.

Indoctrination is teaching your child the words to a prayer without discussing why you feel the need to pray.

My parents did this to me, and yet I do not fault them for it. Oddly enough, while I cannot forgive Christians in general for brainwashing their offspring, in specific, I just don't give a shit. I have no arguments with the way my parents raised me--none. If I could go back and change it, I wouldn't. I wouldn't do anything about my mom teaching me to pray Hail Marys when I couldn't sleep, or my family spending every Christmas Eve at church from 2 pm to 1 am [that is another story altogether], or any number of religion-based activities from my childhood.

The oddity factor probably has something to do with it. My parents were exactly the right kind of Catholic to churn out at least four freethinking children [older sister no, youngest brother too young still, youngest sister showing promise], and I don't think I'd be who I am today had I been raised in any other religion--or non-religion. I treasure my oddities.

My parents value familial bonds, brotherly love, honesty, books, good food, the outdoors, travel, diversity of opinion and experience, and being true to yourself in the face of adversity. They taught me that being weird is ok, that you can never have too many friends or love too many people, that there's more to life than material success, and that I can do whatever I want to do no matter who tells me I can't. I see nothing wrong with any of these values; who would? The fact that they were wrapped up in Christianity and tied with the ribbon of Catholicism did not damper their strength.

And so again, I do not fault my parents for indoctrinating me. I am grateful to them for nurturing my personality, for surrounding me with books at a very young age [my mom noticed I could read when I was three], for raising me in the middle of a forest, for allowing me to wear the same size five t-shirt for weeks, and for loving me unconditionally--even now, when I have intentionally and deliberately abandoned that which they hold most dear.

More parentally-mandated oddness

I forgot to include the topic of homeschooling in this post on Catholicism leading me to atheism. Therefore, I will write an addendum. And since it's separate, I'll go into a detail a bit more.

I was homeschooled. True. But think about every stereotype you've ever come across, whether positive or negative, and that probably wasn't my family. In my world, there were the Catholic Homeschoolers and there were the Protestant Homeschoolers. We were too Catholic for the Protestants and not Catholic enough for the Catholics (apart from one very amazing family, a family we are still friends with, a family I will love and respect and defend to the end of my life).

When I was in 7th grade, my mom put my sisters and me in "Christian Girl Scouts" when I was in middle school. This program was technically called "Hearts After His" and basically involved earning merit badges for activities in which "godly women" participate--namely: baking, cooking, sewing, learning about nature (note: not actually going outside), memorizing Bible verses, ironing (this is not a joke, people), and, for the adventurous godly woman among ye, photography. I have a homemade vest in a box in my closet, a homemade vest adorned with "merit badges" made out of--literally--wood and/or rhinestones. As a member of the oldest group, called "The Joy of Womanhood" (I know, I know. I am seriously NOT making ANY of this up or exaggerating in the slightest. The youngest group was "Pebbles"; the middle "Stepping Stones". Do not ask me why my group didn't follow the rocks theme, because I have no idea.), our final project of the year was to "present" the last section of Proverbs 31.

For anyone not familiar, the last section of Proverbs 31 is titled "The Ideal Wife" and begins

When one finds a worthy wife,

her value is far beyond pearls.

Her husband, entrusting his heart to her,

has an unfailing prize.

It then goes on to say all sorts of things about the ideal wife, like obtaining wool and flax and making her own coverlets and being girt about with strength and rising while it is still night to feed her husband and children.

Again, our project was to "present" this bit of the Bible. I had no idea what my leader meant by present, so I asked her, and she hemmed and hawed a bit and then finally came out with embroidery.

Yes, that is correct. She wanted me to cross-stitch 21 Bible verses onto something and then embellish it with flowers or something...I think. Anyway, I don't know how to do that, which lessened her opinion of me (needless to say), so she allowed me to make a little book and illustrate the verses.

Ok, got all of that? Have you fully absorbed the ridiculousness of the situation?

This next bit is very, very important. Please read it. My mom put us in this program mostly because she wanted us to interact with other kids, but also because she thought we might be able to get a bit of fun out it. She never bought into the fundie side of it, and indeed probably didn't realize the scope of it at first. She would have put us in Boy Scouts if she could have, but she didn't know about Venturing at that point. And yes, there are the real Girl Scouts, but she has moral problems with GSA.

The entire program was based on very fundamentalist, "traditional" gender roles, but my mom was always very clear about her views on the matter--and those were that fundamentalist gender roles are complete and utter bullshit. She taught us to pull the good things out of the crap, like all of the doing God's will stuff that I used to believe in.

When we started to realize that the entire program was geared towards producing docile Christian wives, she gave us the choice to quit, but we had a lot of friends in the program, so we decided to stay. However, every time I didn't like what they were telling me, I could handle it, because I knew my mom backed me up and I could laugh about it with her later. I knew these adults were fucking crazy and I could be a godly woman without wearing a fucking apron and baking pies all day (unless I wanted to, of course).

A warrior of truth once more.

Being an odd duck among the Catholic Homeschoolers wasn't half as hilarious; it mostly consisted of my mom allowing us to wear pants, climb trees, go to Mass in English without wearing veils on our heads, and sass her. Beyond that, it's a bit hard to explain the differences; it was more of a general attitude towards life--a more joyful attitude, if you will. You kind of had to be there, but trust me, we were odd.

Again, the key here is that I have been odd my entire life, and my parents started it. I'm glad they did, honestly; I feel that it contributed to our family closeness. But that's a new topic as well.

A follow-up to my cowardice/uncertainty post

This is a journey. I started this blog to share my journey--and writing about it has stimulated it. I'm fine with admitting my flaws, my shortcomings, my doubts. I am not perfect; nobody is. If I were 100% certain of my beliefs (or lack thereof), my story would not be as interesting--at least to me.

When I am certain of my opinions and beliefs, I am intensely certain. If I were certain about this, I would be one of the "militant atheists" I've heard so much about, and I wouldn't be involved in this hugely rewarding internal struggle (and trust me, you've only gotten the tip of the iceberg so far).

I do mean that; being Catholic was never as rewarding as my rejection of it has been. Questioning God has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my [albeit short] life.

Incidentally, I said that last bit to my mom the other day and she responded with "Well, maybe we should sit down and question God together." Will I sit down with my uber-Catholic mother and question her reason for existence? I will--because my mother always listens to me, always supports me, and never tells me I'm going to hell. She never forced religion on me. Ever.

Which is another reason it's odd that I left the church. A lot of people end up atheists as an inverse response to intense familial and societal pressure, but I just kind of got there on my own.

When I stop to think about it, the odds against me ending up where I am today are enormous. I think you'll see that point illustrated time and time again.

Catholicism led me to atheism--and not like you might think.

Also a true story.

My parents, wonderful people that they are, raised their children to think for themselves. Catholic + thinking for yourself = oxymoron? Perhaps. Never underestimate the power of compartmentalization--but that's a whole new topic unto itself.

I was raised as a Catholic homeschooler in a society of publicly-educated Protestants. I was raised in an environment where I was different, I was not like *anyone* else around me--and that was a good thing. It was good to be Catholic, because that was the truth and hang anyone who thought otherwise. Being homeschooled was a good thing, because it allowed my parents to teach us their beliefs undiluted, and public school would have interfered with that.

Of that last bit I have no doubt and do not speak tongue-in-cheek; the best way to ensure your children share your values is to shield them from other opinions. But by the time I was 14 and enrolled in public high school, I had come to think of myself as a brave soul, a warrior of truth forging my own way through a jungle of error, enlightened in the midst of darkness.

And when you look at it that way, it's really not that surprising that I ended up an atheist. My parents raised me to question authority--from my teachers to the laws of society. I am eternally grateful to them for this; they were the first to instill in me the belief that morality and laws do not always go hand-in-hand.

But back to my point: Questioning the laws of your society is not all that different from questioning the laws of your religion. When you're taught to question the president of your country, is it really that difficult to make the leap to questioning the pope?