Ya ain't much if ya ain't Dutch

I have always been very proud of my Dutch heritage. I grew up living only a couple miles away from my Dutch grandparents and spent a lot of time immersed in traditions I didn't even realize were because of my heritage until I was older. Tea time at 10 am and 3 pm, black licorice (still don't like it), birthday calendars, dinner for lunch and lunch for dinner, and the list goes on. One thing I did learn about the Dutch as I got older was what a bike friendly bunch of crazies we are. I am a disgrace to my heritage.

I haven't had a bike since I was probably in jr. high. When you're fat, you don't want to ride up the street on a bike having the people coming up behind you wondering where the seat went. When your fat, you can't pedal your fat ass up the street period. I can remember riding my bike with my brother all over our yard AND the neighbors yard or all over the campground when we went camping. And then it stopped.

So, I texted Insertnamehere last night and asked him if I could go on a pedal with him once I lost a bunch of weight. He rides his bike all over the place. He said he'd be looking forward to it and could he help me pick out my bike. I obviously agreed since I know nothing about bikes. Later that night we were talking on Facebook and he linked me to a bike. He already picked it out for me. The Electra Townie Balloon 3i. All I had to do was choose the color. Easy. Orange. It is the color of our people (he is Dutch, too, doncha know).

So, today I found a picture of my tangerine dream and it is the photo on my computer's desktop so that I see it all the time. They are spendy mofos so it will be a significant reward for reaching one of my goals. I just don't know what that goal should be yet. I don't know what level of fat this bike is approved for. It's got nice fat tires and a decent size seat. It will likely be more about when I'd feel comfortable riding it than what weight it could hold. Two vastly different numbers. It was nice having him support me. Later he asked how he could help. I told him to just ask me if I've been going to the gym and eating right and don't judge me. Tonight we talked about the ice cream we eat together and I said we're going to have to reserve the B&J for special occasions and get healthier stuff most of the time. He was all for it. He supports me because he knows my size matters to ME, not because my size matters to him. It makes all the difference.

So, when I get to 275 or lose 100 or something of that nature, I will be embracing my Dutch heritage and hopefully pedaling my less fat ass down the streets of Portland with a particular Dutch boy because, after all, you ain't much if you ain't Dutch.

Hello, my name is Hot Mess.

I sat my grandpa (mom's dad, where I get all of my smart ass ways and half of my Dutch heritage) down at the table. He was walking with crutches at this point because his balance was failing and he was having a lot of trouble walking. It was Thanksgiving and I somehow made it to the big table with the grownups. I guess enough of the family was missing that a spot opened up. I got him settled, helped him dish up, and got him everything he needed. As I reached over and fixed his suspenders that had gotten twisted he said, "Kelly, you're going to make some man very happy one day." I loved my grandpa dearly and valued his opinion greatly. He wasn't a man of many words, so when he spoke it resonated (often times because it was full of snark and old men with Dutch accents and all that sass are comedy). My smile had barely had time to form before it was wiped away. My dad was sitting on the other side of him and he said, "Who? Her?" It was his tone. It was his look. It was almost like disgust. It was him saying, "Please. She's never going to get a man. Who would be interested in a girl that big?" I knew he felt that way. He would always talk about some guy he'd come across that would be perfect for my sister, but he never suggested anyone for me because no one would want me, naturally. This was the first time he came out and actually said something that proved my suspicions. I was a teenager. I've never forgotten it.

My dad made me run up and down the stairs at the house until he said stop and sometimes run around in circles around the boat in the shop. He didn't care that I couldn't breathe. He didn't care that running around a boat in a fairly tight circle can make you dizzy. I was fat and it needed to change. So was he, but that apparently didn't need to change because instead of changing the way the family ate, he singled me out and embarrassed me often. During some of my dad's pep talks I was told that I was a worthless piece of shit and that I'd never amount to anything. I was a teenager. I've never forgotten it.

I've had artistic talent since I was little. I used to draw all the time. Every time I brought something to my dad he picked it apart. No compliments, just put downs. This could be better, the proportion is off on this, the shading is wrong on that. Because of this, I've never thought I was good enough. It never mattered that everyone else loved it and envied the talent. Because of this I stopped drawing. Because of this I threw away everything I had ever drawn. The only things I've kept (aside from things I've drawn recently for school) are two drawings that he couldn't find anything wrong with. Two drawings that must have been good enough. I hate that I let him take that away from me. I hate that I don't have confidence in my ability. I hate that because I stopped drawing I can't draw from my head anymore and have to see a picture of something to be able to draw it. I buy sketchbooks all the time because I love them. I open them and stare at the perfect white paper and ache for that girl to come back. The one that drew because she loved it and wasn't anxious because she wasn't good enough. I probably have about a dozen sketchbooks; they are all empty. I've been told that my dad brags about me to other people about my talent or my grades or the like. The only thing he's ever truly shown support in was my writing. He's always told me I should write a book. Beyond that, nothing I've done has ever been good enough as far as I can tell.

There are statistics out there that give numbers on how many compliments it takes to undo one single put down...especially when that put down comes from a parent or loved one. I wholeheartedly support this statistic, whatever it may be. It's been instilled in me since an early age that nothing I do will ever be good enough. I once wrote a letter to my brother that said something to the extent of, "You turned our childhood into anger, I turned our childhood into 350+ pounds." This was the first time I placed blame for my weight on anyone but me. I had always rejected the theory that "our parents are to blame" because I was now an adult and I should be able to change. I am an adult, but there are issues I've left unaddressed my entire life because I am a peacekeeper. I don't like ripples and I like to let bad things sink as quickly as possible. I've avoided addressing very many of the issues with my father in this blog because people I know, people that know my dad, read this. This blog is supposed to be honest. It's supposed to be about my weight and the things that positively or negatively affect my ability to lose it. My dad is a large part of this battle for me and I'm no longer choosing to sweep it under the rug. Until I can afford therapy (which I am now looking into), this is the only outlet I have.

For now I am choosing not to let my dad know that I'm trying to get focused on losing this weight again. I haven't told my parents that I rejoined the gym. I haven't made any comments on meals that have been made. I just stay in my room. I've lived back here for almost 2 years now and anytime I try to get focused again he has plenty of things to say about it. He points out everything that I shouldn't eat all while eating it himself. He complains if he cooks something and I don't want to eat it all while telling me that I need to lose weight. This makes me want to eat. This makes me want to binge. I become a little girl again and the only way that I can get back at my father is to do the one thing that bothers him most...get fatter.

Some therapist is going to have a field day with me. More to come.

7 Pounds

Will Smith has more talent than any one man with a wee little wife should. I was a fan even before he packed up and moved to the hood of Bel-Air. Considering he is the only actor in history to have eight consecutive films gross over $100 million in the domestic box office, I'm confident that his parents have finally found a way to understand. You can add 7 Pounds to his list of accomplishments, if you ask me. This movie is...powerful. Maybe it's not for everyone (and I will not call you out on being a heartless bastard if that's the case, to each their own), and I'm not saying it's the best movie of all time, but it is thought provoking and, oh yeah, powerful. Like the trailers, I can't tell you what it's about. Mom asked me and the only way she got intel was with a disclaimer entailing, "If I tell you, it will ruin the movie." Part of the draw is the fact that you're left sitting there to figure out what he's up to. To take the pieces of information you're givin and come to your own conclusion (which I did, early on, cuz I'm, well, brill). Just go see it.

Speaking of seven, I've been "tagged" to expound on 10 interesting things about myself and then pass the priv to seven others. Let the expounding commence...

1. I've established through other posts (and a tattoo, much to my parent's dismay) that I am Dutch. The pride in this comes from the struggles of my grandparents and the close relationship I had with them growing up. My grandparent's knew each other all their lives. They lived across the street from each other. When the Nazi's roamed the streets of Holland looking for men to work in their labor camps, my grandfather hid behind the ovens of a bakery. That bakery belonged to my grandmother's family. They saved him from having to go to a labor camp; they likely saved his life. Fast forward to 1948. At 24 years old, my grandparents arrived at Ellis Island. Young, pregnant with my mom, scared, and hopeful, they crossed the country and found themselves in Oregon. They taught themselves English, became citizens, owned a dairy farm, raised an excellent family, and lived great lives.

2. I'm an undercover artist. I dabble in all kinds of media. The problem is, I lack confidence. No matter how good others tell me I am, I can take any piece of my art and show you everything that's wrong with it. I am my own worst critic and because of that, I hardly draw anymore. When I was a senior in high school I was a finalist for a full ride scholarship to an art school in Seattle. They paid for me to come up, spend the weekend, interview, and show my portfolio. I didn't get it. I whole heartedly believe that my extreme shyness and lack of confidence was my undoing. Story of my life. Fifteen years later, I'm finally working on getting my Graphic Design degree, even if it is at a Community College and not an art school.

3. I'm writing a novel. A bit of a romantic comedy it seems. The protagonist (main character for those not hip to the terms) is a woman that has lost a lot of weight and finds that she still battles a lot of the same insecurities as she finally starts living her life for the first time. Ideally, I'd like to be able to legitimately call myself a writer some day. To do that, I feel like I have to actually be published. To actually have someone say "Dude, you rock. I want to represent you and get your book published." I want to walk into a bookstore and find my book on the shelf (or not on the shelf because it's sold out...way better). Whether it be publishing the very writings on this blog or a novel I some day finish, the goal is to get published. Any suggestions on a pen name?

4. I'm left-handed. Not jaw dropping in the grand scheme of things, but you'd be surprised to learn (if you're a righty anyway) how it affects a person's life. It is most certainly a right-hander's world. From scissors, to notebooks, to the hobbit size desks found on most college campuses. Even my guitar is for a righty (yeah, I never did get very far on learning guitar). Almost every day a lefty comes across yet another reminder that they are a societal outcast. Woes us.

5. It is essential that I get to Holland and see where my grandparent's grew up, but oddly, Holland is only number two on my list of Top 5 countries to visit before I die. Ireland is number one. I am also Irish (less so than Dutch, but Irish nonetheless). When I was in high school I got myself an Irish Claddagh ring. I loved it. The significance of it and everything one could decipher about your relationship status based solely on how I wore it. I've wanted to go to Ireland ever since, but fat girls don't fly (this fat girl anyway) and haven't been on a plane since I was 14. Truth be told, my first trip out of the country really needs to be to a place where everyone speaks english. I'll already be a fish out of water and would like to at least be able to read signs pointing me in the direction of a bathroom. And considering my complete crush on boys with Irish accents, I may or may not find I've been struck illiterate and have to ask...often.

6. I've never been in love.

7. I have an allergic reaction to chronic negativity. It sucks the life right out of me. I have gotten rid of friends for this very reason. I'm related to the most negative person I know and that's more than I can handle on most days so I'm not about to invite it in by choice. I'm not talking about someone going through a bad patch. I'm talking about the kind of people that complain 90% of the time and are only happy if everyone around them is as miserable as they are. I have my own demons and I fight to maintain positivity every day. I don't need the people in my life bringing me down.

8. I hate folding clothes. Most of my laundry will live in a clothes basket for days upon days before I find that I've worn most of it and only have to put away a few socks and a couple shirts.

9. A few years ago I started a home business. It has evolved through the years and is basically graphic design based. I do greeting cards, wedding (and other) invitations, some web design, corporate identity (logos, stationery, business cards and such), design t-shirts, etc. Up until last term, I was self-taught in all areas. Talk about taking on too much at once! I finally decided to put it on hold and buckle down and get my degree so that I'll have more confidence to pimp my goods. I'll determine my specialties and stick to those. I'm hoping my speciality is web design and t-shirts (and writing).

10. I have a slight case of OCD when it comes to buying new things. If I'm buying a book, magazine, notebook, sketchpad, whatever, I take from the middle of the stack to get one that no one else has likely rifled through. If it has a bent corner, no matter how minor, I grab another one. It's not that I expect them to stay that way. I would just rather buy something pristine and trash it myself.

Holy hell that was hard! I am way to boring to come up with 10 interesting things. Hopefully reading it isn't as painful as writing it has been. And, tag, you're it! Sucker!