To my little girl...

I haven't met you, but I love you.

I haven't seen your daddy smile at me for the first time (that i know of.)

I haven't felt the butterflies (the ones i know you'll bring me) when we learn about you for the first time.

I haven't felt you kick inside my belly (if that's how we are to meet.)

Of course, we may meet in a different way.

You may come to me from another mommy,

Who will be strong, and generous, and loving enough to bring you home to me. (And I'll teach you to love her just as much as I will).

We may not even live in the same place when you come from your mommy's belly (but I will love you from afar).

In fact, i may not even get to be your mommy.

This will make me a little sad sometimes (but I will love you so much anyway).

I may be your cousin,

or your cool "aunt" Jessica,

or "that nice sorta crazy lady from church who always takes you to the movies and brings you books to read..."

(but whomever I am to you, you will know that you are loved).

My little girl, you exist in me today.

Even without seeing your daddy's smile;

or feeling your tiny foot;

or knowing exactly how it is we are to meet.

But I have loved you for as long as I have wanted you.

And that, my dear, has been 10 times the length of the longest day you'll ever know.

To my little girl...

I know God is waiting for the perfect time to send you to me (I am a very patient lady).

So enjoy your time with Him up there. You'll see me soon enough.

I love you.

** I wrote this post, because i know that there are a great many amazing women who can't or won't have children, who are sometimes just as burdened by as overwhelming a desire to be a mother as I am.

As I move into my 30's I'm trying to focus more on the opportunities God may be giving me to be a mother, even if it isn't to happen in exactly the way I've always dreamed.

Sometimes the answer to our prayer isn't the answer that we want, but it's still an answer, nonetheless.

Beauty

When I was a little girl, I'll admit, I thought I was pretty. How could I not? My parents told me all the time. There is even a video tape from my brother's fifth birthday, and I am sitting on the highlighter yellow-green, plush 70's carpet in my parents' bedroom, helping him open his gifts and hold them up for the camera. I hadn't had a particularly good day at school that day, and I wasn't in the best of moods. But there was a moment in-between gifts, when my Daddy had the camera on me, and said, "Hey, Sissy. You're pretty, you know that?"

In that moment, everything else vanished, and for a split-second, no matter what else I had done wrong that day, I knew I was loved.

I wish that feeling had stayed with me-- that I was able to navigate my teen years, and college, and even certain points in my not-quite-as-young adulthood still feeling as beautiful as I had on May 4, 1990.

The thing about beauty though, is that it's not something someone else can convince us exists. Like Santa Claus. Or the Tooth Fairy.

Or even God. While not so much with the other two examples, i have faith that He is there, and i don't have to see Him to know it. I've made up my mind that He exists without seeing Him, and there's little you can do to change it.

Not so with beauty We have to see it for ourselves and in ourselves to believe that it's there. And even after we've seen it, if we don't believe in it, it's easy to forget what we saw. I've found, that for me, what someone else says about my beauty can work to my good or to my ill. It can warm and strengthen my confidence like my father's compliment so many years ago... or it can chew a parasitic hole of doubt into my self-image, just as many other not-so-complimentary remarks (and stares) have done since that day.

It has been hard for me to find beauty within myself, especially physical beauty. Beauty in my curved spine and slow gait. Beauty in my scarred abdomen, back, and feet. Beauty in my brain-injured stare (the one that sometimes comes across my face when I concentrate, or when I'm confused, or when I'm lost in absolutely no thought at all). Beauty in the way that I bend, contort, move. Beauty in the way that my left eye crinkles more when I smile. Or in the way that I laugh. Or even in the way that my mouth moves when I talk.

For a long time, none of those things looked beautiful to me. I was convinced that if my body didn't look beautiful to me, it couldn't look beautiful to anyone else either-- let alone a guy I was interested in dating. I had heard all my life (ad nauseum) that men were such visual creatures. If I couldn't give them the vision they would desire, I would have to find some way to compensate.

I convinced myself that if my body wasn't beautiful; I was going to make sure it could do beautiful things anyway. This led to a love for healthy eating, for exercise, and at some points in my life, to a promiscuity I am not proud of, but cannot run from.

As I've grown older I've realized that no amount of exercise, starvation, or sex can make anyone (least of all me) see my beauty. In fact, vices often hide beauty underneath a veil of self-pity and shame, making it invisible to even the most earnest of eyes.

My beauty may not lie in every single physical aspect of my body, but it lies in what those aspects represent. A premature birth. Months in hospital. Countless surgeries. Hours of pain. Struggle. Perseverance. Strength.

My body is a living testament to the presence of a loving, living God, who gave me no more on this Earth than I could handle. Who wanted me to live.
Who was willing to give me opportunity, a loving family, and a (somewhat hardened) strong will to take my physical body and to use the soul within it to push myself as far as I could go. And for His benefit.

My body itself may not be meant for a magazine cover, but it does tell a story. And to me, the story it tells is beautiful.

So the guy that i meet for coffee on Friday may stare. He may gawk. He may not have the best impression of my physical beauty, no matter how I wear my hair, or what dress I choose, or whether I make it out of the house with eyeliner.


He can choose to see me skin-deep. Or he can look deeper.

But I know, no matter what he thinks, that I'm beautiful. Why?

Because this body I'm using-- this broken, scarred, imperfect body, ultimately belongs to God.

And who am I to call anything He's given me anything less than gorgeous?

Parents, don't let your babies grow up to be...

I was having a conversation with my mom yesterday about whether kids in today's world are in some senses more cruel toward kids with disabilities or other differences than they were when I was growing up. Sometimes I feel like kids today are chock full of cruelty and disrespect, but most days, I realize that they are probably no different than the kids I encountered when I was younger; I just notice more now than I did before (which is probably a good thing, considering that I was able to live into my early twenties under the illusion that the intentions of those around me were almost always affable.)

A child's attitude toward individuals with disabilities starts with the attitudes of their parents. It is OK and even "normal" for your child to be curious about others whose lifestyles, means, and abilities are different from his own. Curiosity is a healthy characteristic of any growing, intuitive person--young or old. If your child is curious about something, you, as the parent, will be the first person he asks (in most cases). I have watched this happen on at least a weekly basis with kids I see out and about in DC.

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

What follows this question is usually one of a series of answers that is not only nonresponsive to the question, but also can cultivate fear and an attitude of avoidance in the child.

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"


Response number 1 (while tapping the child on the shoulder, grabbing him by the arm, leading him quickly away) Mommy death stare, also interpreted as, "Don't say another word; you are embarrassing me."

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

Response number 2 (in hushed tone) "Shh... not in front of her! I'll explain when we get home."

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

Response number 3: Mommy says nothing. Kid stares at individual with a disability.

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

Mommy says nothing. Kid continues to stare.

Kid: "Mommy, what happened to that lady?"

Mommy says nothing. Now kid and mommy both stare, and mommy leads kid away with kid's head continuously turning back in pseudo-Linda-Blair-head-spin fashion to look at the amazing crutch-clad lady.

None of the above responses encourage the kid to explore his curiosity; none of them encourage him to talk to the individual with a disability, and none of them answer his question. All of the responses do, however, help cultivate the attitude that

a) having a disability is kind of a big deal
b) having a disability is kind of a bad deal
c) the first rule of having a disability is that we don't talk about having a disability.

So what would be the correct response? Is there a correct response? The best response is to encourage your child to talk to the individual with a disability. The person who can best answer questions about his or her life is the person living it. There is, of course, always the chance that the person with a disability won't be receptive... but you run that risk with all new people to whom you introduce yourself. The best thing you can do for your child though is to show him that people with disabilities are just like able-bodied people. The easiest way to do that is to approach, extend your hand, and say, "Hello..." The rest will follow.

What if...

Don't get me wrong. Some days I wake up and am a little less than enthusiastic (ok maybe a little more than a little) about being dependent on two metal sticks to walk. Some days the arthritis in my body makes me feel as though I've been beaten flat by a meat mallet. Other days I'd rather be doing the downhill slalom in the Winter Olympics than getting dressed for work. Some days, when I hear my favorite song on the radio, I wish I could jump up and dance in a way that makes sense to more people than me. Other days, I am saddened by the fact that I will honestly never know what it is like to carry a child in my arms while walking down the street... or anywhere, for that matter.

Some days I am bitter. Other days I am angry-- angry at myself, at God, and at anyone within earshot... thinking that I would have a better life if I didn't realize what I'm missing out on day-by-day.

So... what if? What if I was different? What if I was this gorgeous, graceful, able-bodied attorney who loved to roller skate, and dance, and run half-marathons?

I'm sure this other version of me would be a perfectly nice person, with perfectly nice interests, and a perfectly nice life. But that person wouldn't be me. And what's more... I'm sure she would have an equally long list of complaints about her own life, skills, and abilities. I'm ok not knowing this other me, and should research and science ever give me a chance to meet her, I think I'll pass.

I like the me that I've become, flaws and all. I wouldn't trade it for the world. I may not have the ability to walk without some sort of aid, but I do have the ability to fight for the rights of others even less fortunate than myself. I am passionate about disability rights, and civil rights in general. That passion wouldn't have grown to be what it is today without my personal experiences and struggles. I know God has given me this life for a purpose, and I don't intend to waste a single second worrying about what I could do or be in a different one.

Since I've been a blogger, I've worried about posting my workplace woes online, afraid that someone would read them and I'd be fired, yelled at, or relegated to the nearest closet to eek out my already-miserable employed existence. After much thought and deliberation on the to-post-or-not-to-post dilemma, I've come to one simple conclusion.

The truth is what it is, and sometimes the truth hurts.

Each of the scenarios that follow is true, and actually happened to me. There have, of course, been more than just these, but I post them here mostly to vent, and to share what I have learned in the past (nearly) 4 years at my job, which is that an equal employment opportunity office is not always efficient at obeying the laws and regulations it has been established to uphold.

When I was hired to work for the federal government, I came to a building that was not accessible to people with mobility disabilities. There were no automatic doors on the building, and my office which was on the 8th floor, did not even have an accessible stall. I was unable to even enter the door to my office, as I needed both hands (one to swipe my id and the other to open the door). With crutches, my hands are perpetually full, so opening the door was perpetually...impossible.

All of these things were minor setbacks which were remedied eventually. The restroom and outside doors were made accessible before I came on board, but the inside office door was inaccessible to me for two years. Despite alerting management to this fact early on, the door was fixed only after the office adjacent to ours decided that they did not want to leave their doors open to accommodate me, that it was my office's job to do so, and that leaving their doors open to the public was subjecting them to a substantial security risk. I did not disagree and was happy to have the automatic button installed so I could let myself into the office.

Despite being able to get past some of the physical barriers to my job, attitudinal barriers I have encountered have been harder to overcome. My office is not an easy place to work, being composed of mostly women. Pettiness and gossip can sometimes abound. Attitudinal attacks are also a struggle.

As Prince said, "You don't have to watch Dynasty to have an attitude." And boy, do these women know it.

I have been yelled at by the Director of my office in a public setting--twice-- the most notable occasion for accidentally handing out an old evaluation sheet in a training, which asked participants to anonymously identify their race, age, and gender. Our office keeps the data for demographic purposes only, so we can know exactly who attends our training. It is under lock and key. Only we see it. Such data collection is not against the law, and is regularly kept by thousands of entities. I know this.

My Director, however, who is not a lawyer and did not go to law school, told me that day that I had "broken the law and undermined the integrity of the entire program" by asking for this data. I merely apologized for my mistake and told her it would not happen again. I later took a copy of the Privacy Act to her, citing the relevant passages that would allow us to gather demographic data. She still disagreed and has never apologized for yelling at me in front of my co-workers or using such harsh language to this day.

Meanwhile, I'm wondering if I should sue Apple for violation of the Privacy Act for asking my race, age, and gender when I purchased my last iPhone...

When I started my job, I worked with equal employment discrimination complaints and typed acceptance/dismissal letters for those complaints on a regular basis. Because I am a one-handed typist (and somewhat slow) I had requested voice dictation software for my computer. I have had the same software at every other job I've had, public and private, and I still don't have it here. The Director had agreed to help me request it through our computer-electronic accommodations program, but when I approached my supervisor, she was more skeptical. She rolled her eyes at me when I told her why I thought I needed the software, and made a comment when she saw me waiting for my ride after work.

"You say you need help typing but you sure are good at texting on that phone, " she quipped. I do have the software now, but have been given the runaround as to who can install it and when. Honestly, I've lost interest.

Another supervisor of mine had a similar sort of reaction when I asked for help carrying a three-ringed binder from the file room to my desk.

She shoved the binder into an intern's hands and said, "Can you carry this.... because Jessica doesn't want to?"

No one ever said I didn't want to carry the binder. Believe me, I do, I'd love to be able to carry a binder at my job, a tray at a restaurant, a friend's baby in church. But with crutches... I'm afraid carrying is a little difficult.

And my inability to carry isn't the only thing that gets me grief around here. Just the other day, the administrative assistant shoved a laptop cord into my hands after I had used our office laptop for a presentation, proclaiming that I didn't roll it properly. The cord was rolled around the adapter tight enough that it wouldn't unravel, I just wasn't able to slip the velcro around the plug.

When I explained to her that I had trouble with the motion necessary to roll the cord the way she wanted, because of the spasticity in my hands, she rolled her eyes as though she didn't believe me, and followed her reaction with, "Well, I don't care who you get to roll it, but it better be rolled properly before you give it back to me."

While the statements above smack of intent to demean, I'm not always certain that is the case. I try to give those I work with the benefit of the doubt, regardless of what they should know about being equal employment practitioners or even just professionals in any workplace. I have questioned so often what makes people think they are justified in their reactions to others, and in saying things the way they say them? Are they considering the other person at all when they react?

I tell myself that words and reactions are not always intentional, and that it is going to take time and effort to change attitudes toward differences (especially disabilities) since I work in an able-bodied culture. There are times when an attitude can sneak into a conversation with blistering stealth.

Whether it happens when my boss emphasizes the word "neatly" every time she asks me to write something in print or she inadvertently talks about me "dragging myself around the Pentagon." Whether it's when the admin assistant gives me a look after I explain to her that it is difficult for me to cut up and glue tiny strips of paper because my hands have spastic movements. Or whether it's when a co-worker says, "I love your dresses, but I'm always expecting you to have cute shoes.... and then I look down..."

People don't always mean what they say, exactly the way they say it, and being in my job I know that communications are more often misdelivered or mistaken than not. But how many flubs is too many? And when is it ok to wonder whether something is more than inadvertent. I mean, even if someone only makes one Freudian slip... shouldn't I use it as an opportunity to educate??

It's just hard to gingerly bring up that these comments and actions hurt since they happen so often. I just keep telling myself to have a thicker skin, because I don't want others to walk on eggshells around me. When can I speak my mind, and am I justified in speaking?? If I were someone else, I'd say, "Absolutely." But as my own advocate... I'm skittish, and I just don't know.

Normalcy

Last night I found out that the guy I had dated throughout most of college, and whom I was certain I was going to marry until just a few years ago, was married recently to someone else. This "someone else" is a woman with whom he'd admittedly had at least an emotional affair while we were dating. She is someone he began to talk about all of the time as our relationship drew to a close. She is also 22 years older than he.

That being said, I don't know her, and I'm sure she is a perfectly nice lady; she convinced my ex to start going to church, which honestly, was more than I was able to do in our many, many years of discussion. I truly hope that he's happy, which was all I ever wanted for him anyway, and I wish them nothing but the best.

None of this, of course, changes the fact that I couldn't fall asleep until three this morning, crying and burying my swollen eyes into the pillow, thinking about the plans that he and I had made together, and how he could talk such an incredible game about our life together, our future children, and growing old, but he just couldn't commit.

I knew from the day that we met in the Centre post office when I was headed home from CCF with my good friend, Vanessa, that there was going to be something special between us. After he shook my hand and left, I looked at Vanessa and said, "I think I'm gonna marry him."

What followed in the years after was a relationship tumultuous enough to have its own soap opera, with intense ups and downs, multiple break ups, break downs, and reunifications. Everyone in my life had an opinion about this guy, and I chose to ignore most of them. One thing was certain: the intensity of our relationship made it a very passionate one, and the way I felt about him was unlike anything I'd ever experienced, or have yet to experience again.

When I moved to DC and he was in his last year of law school, things heated up quickly. We talked on the phone and through IM and e-mail. He helped me through sadness after I had declared my love for a good friend. I never will forget our conversation on Valentine's Day 2008. He said, "Jess, someday he's going to realize what he missed out on with you. I have."

Before I realized how quickly things were moving, he was visting me for weeks at a time. Things felt so natural with him because we knew each other so well... and the undeniable passion was still there. He could communicate volumes to me with just one look, and it's something that I miss to this day. We made each other laugh and he knew what I was thinking before I even opened my mouth.

The days between each visit grew longer, and we were talking marriage and children. Through all of the serious scheming and planning, I knew something just wasn't quite right. He would often express his insecurity about the fact that we both had disabilities, and how he could see all he hated of himself in me. This, in turn, made me insecure, and I questioned his love for me. He accused me of being too "results-oriented" and said that if I was just patient, our plans would eventually happen.

It was then that I began to suspect he didn't really want to marry me, because as everyone who has read "He's Just Not That Into You" knows, when a guy wants to be with you, he will. Meanwhile, he was lying to others, including his parents, about where he was when he flew to visit me... and I didn't find out until later that he had actually made up a fictious identity for a girlfriend he claimed to be seeing while visiting me... but she was nothing like me at all.

I told him that I would do what I needed to do, move wherever I needed to move to be with him. He was the love of my life. The more I begged him to just tell me what he wanted, the less he was around, and the only real signs of his presence in my life were the playlists he'd created on my Rhapsody.com account and the sporadic charges he made to my debit/credit cards; some with my permission, some without.

After not talking with him for two weeks, our last conversation was on gchat. He told me he couldn't give me the love and support I needed, and that was that. Years of my love, time, and effort were brushed aside with the stroke of an Enter-key and one instant message.

I tried calling him a few times after that, crying when I heard his voicemail, but never leaving a message. I also e-mailed him to try to get back some of the money he owed me. He promised he'd send it. I sent him my address three times, and I never saw a dime.

Call me crazy, but last night when I found out that not only was he married, he was also honeymooning in Ireland (which, incidentally, requires money) I felt more than a little hurt. It was as though the thousands of dollars I'd spent for him and his well-being meant nothing. Not only that, our time together meant nothing. It meant so little in fact that he couldn't even tell me himself that he was marrying a person who in my eyes was "the other woman."

And what did she have that I didn't? Certainly not more love. I'm convinced no one will ever care for him the way I did. But she did have something. One thing. Normalcy. She didn't have a disability.

I remember a day when we walked to PF Chang's from my apartment in Fairfax, VA, and we had to sit outside at one of the benches to wait for our table. In a rare moment, he reached over and grabbed my hand, lifted it, and kissed it gently. I smiled at him, tearing up a little. He was happy to be seen with me. Once we'd eaten and we were back at my place, relaxing on the living room couch, he started talking about how proud he was that he'd held my hand in public, how he'd had to think about it first. "You know, everyone expects we'll be together, because we both have disabilities, and I don't like that."

What he said might sound repulsive, but it's actually not as foreign as one might think. Many of my friends with disabilities have expressed to me that they would rather date or marry someone without a disability, someone more "normal" than they, if not for more than the simple fact that they want to be seen as attractive by a "normal" person.

I've never really understood that mentality. Isn't normal relative? Doesn't everyone have their quirks? I've never made having a disability or lacking a disability a requirement for my mate, and why should I? Their differences don't define them, just as mine don't define me. And sure, an able-bodied guy might be able to help me with more physical tasks.... but no one is going to know what it's like to have a disability better than another person who has one. There are superficial pros and cons to either side.

What matters to me is how a man treats me, how well we converse, and if he can make me smile. I won't lie and say that I don't want to be found attractive by able-bodied guys either. I do, but if I had a nickel for everytime some guy compared me to his grandma for one reason or another, I'd be a filthy rich woman.

Really, all I want is this: someone who sees the me I see; the me inside--my heart and soul. The person I really am.... because he may wake up with a wife on crutches one day or a wife in a wheelchair the next, but I'm still going to be an avid reader who sleeps on the left side of the bed, loves her chihuahua more than most people, and could eat her weight in guacamole. Those are the things that make me normal... nothing else.

Don't You Want Me, Baby?

When I was around 12-13, I had hit that awkward stage in growth. I had already gone through the beginning phases of puberty-- I was somewhat of an early bloomer-- and my body just couldn't keep up with the raging hormones tearing through my person and my psyche like a hurricane. One for which I was definitely ill-prepared.

It was also around that time that I began to notice boys. There was one in particular who I'd like to call my first crush. He was actually my best friend at the time, and someone who helped me through my awkwardness more than I think he will ever realize. But as crushes tend to do, he moved on, quicker than I expected, and I was left with a confused head and a broken heart.

"Why," I pondered, "wouldn't he want me?" We loved the same tv shows, books, and music. We loved the same God. We could talk for hours. We made each other laugh. In my mind, we were perfect for one another. Why didn't he think so, too? What was wrong with me?

I began to watch my friend with the girls who had become his new friends and compare myself to them. They were all older, taller, and thinner than me. So pretty. And none of them had a disability.

Don't get me wrong; I was a pretty little girl. I look back at pictures now, and I see what I guess he must've seen in me then. But at the time, all I saw was a fat lump, positioned between two metal sticks. It's true that I was a little lumpy. I wasn't finished growing, and hadn't yet achieved comfort in my new, maturing body. I was overweight, and could stand to lose a few pounds. I was convinced that losing weight would make him want me. It would make everybody want me, right? After all, I couldn't control the fact that I had to walk around between two metal sticks... but I could control what was between them. I was going to lose so much weight that no one would even notice my disability anymore; I'd be too pretty for them to focus on that, or any of my other flaws.

I started out slowly, skipping meals and telling my parents I wasn't hungry for more than one meal a day. It was still summer at this point, and I could get away with being "too tired" or "too hot" or even "too sad" to eat, since what I considered to be "the break-up" was still really fresh in my mind. I was exercising a lot too, going on long walks in the evening and spending the majority of my day at marching band camp. The pounds began to melt away, and I was getting positive feedback from my family and friends, telling me to keep up the good work.

I decided to kick it into high gear, and what followed in the next few months continues to be a blur to me. I began my weightloss journey at a weight near 140, and before I knew it, I was staring at myself in the mirror at just under 90 pounds, still calling myself fat and still seeing the lump that I imagined myself to be. I was eating diet everything, and very little of it. I was counting every calorie. I was hiding food in my napkins. I was mashing it on my plate to make it look half-eaten. A diet coke had become a meal. I had grown so accustomed to not eating that it had become a self-imposed competition to me. The longer I could go without food, the more successful I was. My weight had become nothing but a numbers game to me. I was obsessed with the number of calories I ate, the number of minutes I walked, the number of pounds I lost, and the numbered size of my pants. I could think of little else other than food, and how I was going to beat it, and my lumpy little self-image, into submission.

Then, one Tuesday morning in 9th grade Biology, I ate a 190-calorie package of peanut butter crackers. They had not been on my food agenda for that day (I kept a written log of everything I ate) but they had looked so good when I passed them in the vending machine that I HAD to eat them.

I remember the gritty texture of the crackers feeling so unusual in my mouth; it had been such a long time since I'd tasted any. I ate all six and licked the peanut butter residue from the inside of the plastic. I guzzled my diet coke, satisfied.

Thirty seconds later, though, I couldn't focus. I had written the crackers down in my notebook, and they just didn't fit. 190 calories!! Why did I eat them?? I was such a fat cow. Didn't I have any willpower?? What was wrong with me?? I jumped from my seat and ran to the bathroom. I had to get them out. Now.

I hurled myself into the large stall, and shoved my finger down my throat 7 times until the crackers followed it out of my mouth. Their marvelous gritty consistency had become a slimy and disgusting soup in my stomach. Watching them fall from my mouth into the toilet I felt better knowing I had corrected my mistake. I was still in control.

All day, I could think about nothing but the crackers. What was I doing? Had I really become that sort of person?? The kind you see in tv movies or after school specials? The kind who could be sent away for help??

I told my mom and dad that night. I told them everything. About the crackers and the calorie-counting and the food-hiding, and the crazy thoughts I was having about myself.

My parents never scolded me, because they loved me. But because they loved me, they got me help. There are still many days that I struggle in a war with food.... and for someone who loves food, that's hard to admit. There are some I wake up and everything seems disgusting to me, and others that I could eat a whole pizza in an hour and contemplate purging after. It's a war that to some extent, I will continue to fight for the rest of my life. Somedays, I'll catch myself looking into the mirror and seeing a lump between two sticks, and others I'll catch myself thinking, "Hey, I look pretty good today."

The difference is that now I realize that I'm in control without needing to turn to food as my vessel. I realize that those who want me in their lives will want me, lumpy or not.
They will want me with metal sticks or without. They will want me for who I am, and not just how I look.

I realize now that I am in control of how I feel about myself, and that no other person can change what I feel just with their opinion. Only I can do that. I am in control of whether I let myself love and be loved, just the way I am....and realizing I have that control is a natural high, much better than the temporary high I could feel from starving or purging any day.

Whether someone else wants me no longer matters, because I love myself enough to stay in control by finding happiness through my relationship with God, my friends, and my family rather than through my relationship with food.