(Before we start here, I just want to mention that this is me, being honest. It’s my narrative. My voice in my head that, like many women, tells me what it doesn’t like about me. It’s not a judgement on anyone else, and it’s not meant to give a standard to anyone. My guess in writing it is that, regardless of our different sizes, many woman have this same conversation with themselves. This is mine.) This deployment I put on some weight. I ate more than usual. I had to change gyms and with that my routine for exercise changed. I was working on top of parenting and I didn’t make the time for meal prep and planning as I usually do. All those excuses to say that these last 6 months I just didn’t make exercise and healthy eating as much of a priority as I have before. So even though I usually lose weight when he is away, I gained. Not a lot, but enough that I look a little different. So for the last month or so, that’s been all I’ve seen. In fact, in my eyes, that’s been all I’ve accomplished. I look at the little muffin top and that’s all I have used to sum up months and months of my life. I didn’t get it together enough to keep that under control. I failed. I have measured the success of my accomplishments this deployment on the size of my stomach roll and nothing else. I’ve looked at pictures where I’ve been speaking or working and all I…
I have always wanted to work in social services. Ever since I was a kid, I can remember wanting to be a ‘helper’. Like Lucy on Charlie Brown with her Psychiatrist booth, I figured I would be good at it from the beginning. And that’s how at 20 I found myself behind a woman almost twice my age, washing the blood off her back and legs that had been left there by a John unwilling to accept the limitations of her services. He had carved words into her and thrown her from his car. I bolted to her when she arrived back at the shelter and she held up her hands. ” no! I’m positive (for HIV and HepC). Not you Kim. You’re too young to touch it.” I had assured her I had my gloves. She of course didn’t want to answer questions at the hospital so I cleaned her up. And behind her while I gently wiped the ragged shallow cuts, tears spilled down my cheek knowing the next day I would see her leave back out there. Real poverty, real addiction, it’s messy and stark and heartbreaking. But I am fairly practical and I’m not much of a cryer. Over the years I became less so. I am still a helper in my heart though, it’s why I took up social work. I’ve worked at shelters and as a child supporter with children’s aid. I’ve worked in harm reduction for pregnant addicts, volunteered at soup kitchens and with exploited women’s groups. I’m no expert by any means but I…
