Still Flinching After All These Years

By Lynn Haraldson-Bering

My husband and I adopted our dog Jake 9 years ago from a shelter. He was a stray 2-year-old, pure-bred Golden Retriever who befriended by some college guys working at the local beer distributer. They nicknamed him “Beer Dog.”

Jake had kennel cough and was losing his hair. He was hyper, underweight, and smelled bad. He wasn’t neutered. Our vet put him on a bunch of medications and removed his manly parts, then Larry and I started the process of getting to know Jake.

One thing we noticed was that Jake flinched when we reached out to pet him. He lowered his head and winced his eyes when he saw our hand near his head, a clear indication that someone hit him regularly. He never once bared his teeth or defended himself as we worked to gain his trust, but 9 years later, Jake still flinches sometimes when someone reaches out to pet him.

Last night I was playing an online word game with my daughter, Cassie. We were vegging on the couch, each with a laptop on our laps. As we played, I said things like, “I’m such an idiot!” and “How could I not get that word?” and “What’s wrong with me? I’m so stupid!” At the end of the game, Cassie asked me, “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

I stared at her like I’d been hit over the head with a two-by-four. I’m hard on myself because I’m innately insecure. I chastise what I feel are my shortcomings.

I remembered I did the same thing earlier in the day when I got to Cassie’s to take over Claire-sitting detail. I said to my other daughter, Carlene, “I am so fat!”

Carlene sighed and said, “Well, you might feel fat, but you’re not.”

How many times has she told me that over the last few years? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? Probably a thousand. I hadn’t done the math until Cassie asked me why I was so hard on myself for not being able to unscramble a few words in a computer game.

Even after the long, arduous task of losing weight, and (in an almost banal way) learning to “accept” and “love” myself, there are moments when I’m still that self-abuser. It’s an unconscious response to something my mind nakedly perceives as stupid or bad or dumb. It’s a raw response, not thought out in the least.

Then someone like my daughter comes around and says, “Why are you doing that?”

“Beer Dog” still flinches when a hand reaches out to give him love. I still flinch when good stuff is handed to me. Unlike Jake, I’m the abused AND the abuser.

Cassie plays word games for the fun of playing. I play as a way to measure how “smart” I am. If she doesn’t figure out a word, she laughs. If she loses, she laughs. If she wins, she doesn’t boast. Cassie knows she’s intelligent and doesn’t gauge it by some computer game. She is one of the most self-assured people I know. And here’s the kicker: I raised her!

I raised Carlene, too. TWO astoundingly clear-thinking girls. When Carlene saw me yesterday, she didn’t say, “God, Mom, you’re a cow!” It wasn’t even part of her consciousness. That was my thought and my talk. That was the voice in my head that still, STILL, after two years, tells me I’m not quite good enough. It’s the voice that says I have yet to live up to some vague personal expectation.

So….in this era of national change…that’s what I’m pledging to do: To figure out what that impossible personal expectation is and to change it. Losing weight, I was fueled by the desire to change and to make that change permanent. Now that I’m here, I’m still at a loss as to what it is that I really truly want and need from my body.

When I stood at the sink doing dishes, I saw my reflection in the window. I saw the outline of my collar bones and the muscles below. I stopped rinsing and thought, “I’ve worked hard.” Then I heard, “Yeah, well, how long will it last? You’ll screw it up like you always do.”

I don’t live daily with this harsh voice. But when it’s there I need to address it. When I hear it, I need to remind myself that I haven’t “screwed up” for two years, and that every day I vow not to screw it up. And if I do screw up, I’ll be OK. If I eat something off my plan or if I don’t exercise, if I still flinch at the scale or my reflection or my perception of what I think I look like, I’m still a good person, an honest person, a person who knows how to get back on track.

Jake trusts me, for the most part. Sometimes his past tells him to be cautious.

I need to trust me, even when my past tells me to be cautious.

Maintenance, at least for me, truly is one day at a time.