It’s New Year’s Day 2022 and for the first time in about a year-and-a-half, I’m actually writing. Not for work – for me. And man, it feels good to have my mojo back, even if I’m a tad rusty. I should probably be cleaning or taking down Christmas decorations, but to be honest, I haven’t felt this much like myself in a long time, so I’m not wasting it.
As one does this time of year, I’m sitting here bending my brain like a contortionist, trying to look backward and forward at the same time to come up with some profound, introspective epiphany that will help me make 2022 my “best year yet.” Traditionally, this involves pinpointing everything I don’t like about myself or my circumstances, and declaring my fervent resolve to become an entirely different person by this time next year.
Bet you can guess how well that’s worked out so far. <insert eyeroll emoji here>
So I’m taking a different approach and perspective into this New Year. But first, some context.
If you know me, you know I’m a huge advocate for mental health care, and more specifically, normalizing our conversations about it. I’ve been very open for years about my anxiety and how much I adore and rely on my therapist. What I’ve been less open about (outside conversations with a few of my closest friends) is my depression and abysmally low self-esteem.
My silence isn’t because I’m ashamed – I know a lot of people struggle with these things and it doesn’t make me “broken” or less worthy of anyone’s respect or friendship or affection. It’s because I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer – I don’t want to be that person who’s always negative or making everything about me. So I don’t. I put on a smile, crack some jokes and post an Instagram story that makes you think everything’s just peachy. Because it’s not your burden to bear – it’s mine.
Don’t worry – my New Year’s resolution isn’t to start dumping my emotional baggage on everyone else. I have a point with all of this – just taking the long way to get there.
For me, depression has never been the constant that my anxiety has been. It’s something I go through for a few weeks or months, once every few years. I work on it in therapy and eventually come out the other side. That is, until 2020 graced us with its unholy presence. Since then, with the exception of a few weeks here and there, it’s been pretty stubbornly sticking around.
In my experience, depression isn’t all ugly-crying and despair. More often than not, it’s simply a lack of motivation and difficulty focusing on things. Everything is overwhelming and more than I can deal with. So I just don’t deal with it. And not just the mundane stuff like cleaning, exercise or work projects. Even the things I love – cooking, socializing, writing, reading – are suddenly so fucking hard.
Partly as a result of my depression, along with all the other bullshit we had to deal with over the past two years, my body has changed a lot. When 2020 started, I was at the gym almost every day, counting macros and in the best shape of my adult life. Shortly after lockdown started, the workouts stopped. So did the food tracking. I became more or less sedentary and adopted the “Fuck It The World Is On Fire So I Don’t Care” diet. I gained back all the weight I had lost, and then some. I am now the heaviest I have ever been. And let me tell you – as someone with some deep-rooted body image/self-esteem issues, I haven’t been in a very good place this past year.
My breaking point came in October. I was interviewed on camera for work. The story aired on a local newscast that night. To this day, I have no clue what I even said or how the reporter’s story turned out. I remember not being able to breathe when I saw myself on the TV. I remember my heart rate going through the roof. I remember trying to stave off a panic attack. I remember thinking, “Holy fucking shit is that really what I look like?!?” I was disgusted. Horrified. Ashamed. Angry. How could I have let myself go like that? I had recently signed up for a couple of apps to dip my toes back into the dating pool. I immediately grabbed my phone and deleted both accounts. No one – and I mean no one – would date this. Could possibly be attracted to this. Oh god what had I been thinking??? And then spent the night crying harder than I had since my cat died in the middle of the second lockdown of 2020.
I woke up the next morning feeling absolutely defeated. But also with an unexpected sense of clarity. During my session that day, I told my therapist what had happened and sobbed, “I’m tired of hating myself! I can’t do this anymore. I don’t deserve this.” And just like that, I started loving my body.
Haha – j/k. I wish it was that easy.
But it was the breakthrough I needed to start doing the work to stop hating my body. Some interesting things that I’ve done/learned/been reminded of since then, in no particular order:
- Identified some disordered eating habits, specifically around binging. While not “extreme” enough to be merit a formal eating disorder diagnosis, it’s helped me better understand why I eat the way that I do, so I can make the changes I need to.
- Unfollowed every diet/wellness/fitness/here’s-what’s-wrong-with-you-and-how-to-fix-it account on social media. Fuck that noise so hard.
- Started following a lot more body-positive/fat-positive/anti-diet accounts. Seems silly, but I spend so much time on social media, and you don’t realize how much messaging affects you until you pay attention to it. Has actually made a huge difference in my state of mind.
- Started focusing on intuitive eating, rather than dieting (which, it turns out, is one of my binge eating triggers). I love it – it’s all about being more mindful, and removing the “good/bad” messaging we’ve been programmed to believe about food. I have notes on my fridge and cabinets that say “Nothing in here is good or bad. It’s just food.” I do check-ins before every meal and try to really listen to my body.
- Finally acknowledged that people don’t see me the way I see me. I don’t walk down the street and think, “Gee, she shouldn’t be wearing that” or “God, how many chins does that guy have?” Like, it doesn’t even occur to me to think these things about other people. They’re just people. Half the time, I don’t notice them at all. And odds are, most people aren’t thinking those things about me. If they are, they’re A) someone whose opinion I don’t value and B) probably projecting their own low self-esteem.
- Enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner thoroughly and ate until I was full, rather than eating until I hated myself.
- Bought clothes that fit my body in its current state and donated just about everything else. You stop thinking about your fat rolls when A) the waistband on your pants isn’t chewing on them constantly like a gristly piece of steak and B) the jeans that don’t fit anymore aren’t taunting you from the bin under the bed. Seriously – I highly recommend. It’s much easier to be comfortable in your body when your body is comfortable in your clothes.
- Adopted a puppy. Hard to be sedentary when you have a 5-month-old terrier with boundless.fucking.energy who needs to be walked/played with several times a day. (Full disclosure: puppies are hard. Like so hard. Not something to casually consider as a cute alternative to a treadmill.)
- Ate all the Christmas cookies I wanted and didn’t feel guilty about it for one.fucking.second.
And you know what’s crazy? Or maybe not-so-crazy? As I started giving myself some grace, stopped agonizing about every little thing I did (or didn’t) eat, and finally gave myself permission to experience joy again (even as Omicron rears its ugly-ass head), I felt better. Like a lot better. The depression isn’t gone, but it’s lifting. I can feel it slowly packing its bags.
Anyway. What was the point I was trying to make? Oh yah – New Year’s resolutions.
This year, I’m taking a different approach. This whole “New Year, New Me” thing can suck a bag of…well, you know. No more resolving to be someone else. Some version of me that conforms to someone else’s impossible ideals that I never fucking signed off on in the first place. I have spent all of my adult life – and much of my adolescence – trying to be anyone but myself. And I’m done. I’m fucking done. I’m loud and profane and colorful and silly and opinionated and weirdly obsessed with animals and affectionate and intelligent and anxious and dorky and yes, at the moment, sporting an extra chin and a spare inner tube. And I’m not sorry. The only apology I’ll offer is to myself for being so cruel and judgemental. I have so many people in my life who love me for me, not in spite of me. It’s time I did too.
So this year, I resolve to be kinder to myself. To have the courage to accept my body and continue learning to listen to it. To stop trying to “fix” problems that don’t exist. And to forgive myself when I stumble in this process.
I resolve to stop apologizing for my Spotify library. To pay down my credit card debt and put some real cash in savings. To wash the floors. To eat all the dry sandwiches I want. And maybe some vegetables. To dance when I fucking feel like it. To not beat myself up when I don’t actually wash the floors. To tell my doctor that “losing weight” isn’t an acceptable prescription. To play with my puppy every day. To continue apologizing to the cat for bringing a puppy home. To set boundaries when I need them. To make time for writing, now that my depression has released the creativity it’s been holding hostage all these long months.
If I’ve learned nothing else these past two years, it’s that life is too short to spend it hating myself or trying to be someone else. So in 2022, I resolve to be 100% unapologetically me.
Buckle up, kids.
Amy Mac in Sac 