Solcana blog

HECKLED and DOCTOR JEKYLLED

By: Lauren Anderson

This week I got heckled on stage. For being fat. And it sucked.

Are you angry? Good. That makes me feel better. Not that I want you upset, dear readers. But if that last sentence left you feeling the slightest outrage, at least I know you’re on my side. And that means a lot. Truly.

Allow me to fill in some blanks. I am a professional actor/improvisor. Sometimes in my job we do corporate shows for various companies. This is how a lot of theaters are able to fund themselves. These gigs “keep the lights on” so-to-speak. Usually it’s pretty fun, educational even, and not a bad way to make a buck.

Needless to say, what the client wants, the client usually gets. And at this point in my career, I am pretty good at delivering. But when you do improv, there is always that element of “not knowing” because it’s made up on the spot. I can control what I do and say, but the same is not true of anyone else. But that’s part of the fun right?!

So when we pulled two audience members from the crowd to help us in a scene, we thought it would be business as usual. They would say something silly (Olive Loaf!), or use corporate jargon (Let’s put a pin in that!), or be inside jokey (Daryl couldn’t find the copier if he tried!), and we then have to justify whatever they said and keep the scene going.

It’s usually hilarious. It’s usually a crowd-pleaser. I’ve done this type of thing literally thousands of times with no incident. Until this week.

The guy we pulled up decided to make some joke about me that “my ex husband left me because I was too big.” and the audience laughed and laughed. I stood there stunned. Over 150 people in a room laughing at me. And I just had to stand there and wait for them to stop.

The worst part was the trajectory of the laugh. It started off as shock and pity. (Have you ever had more than 100 people pity you at once? Yeah, I don’t recommend it.) Then the laugh moved to full-on guffawing, then decayed into a real “Oooooo, you GOT HER!” Finally, I put my hands up to calm them down.

So what did I do? I CONTINUED THE SCENE. Because I’m a pro. I used the sentence and flipped it on it’s head. Masterfully deflecting, if I do say so myself. And I got the scene back on track. I got the audience to get over it. And laugh WITH me, instead of AT me.

I am also happy to report that ALL my bosses and higher-ups had my back. They made a point to tell me that no amount of money is worth suffering through treatment like that, and they would be talking with the client. They even complimented me for keeping it together and staying professional, but they told me they would’ve been behind me if I’d decided to obliterate the guy instead.

Had it been another show in different circumstances, I might’ve. But I decided in the moment to play it safe. And I stand by my decision. But you can bet I’ve daydreamed a few alternate scenarios in my head since then. Regardless, I was so grateful to have the support.

But boy, was I furious.

I was furious that it happened. That some guy I’ve never met thought it was okay to comment on my body, yet again. That my body was something to be ridiculed. That this body is not worthy of love.

Not to mention the double standard that he himself was carrying extra weight. Like it’s okay for him, but not for me?! And the audience wasn’t booing the guy either! In fact, the audience oohing and ahhing meant that making fun of someone for being “fat” still seems like an okay thing to do. What-in-the-actual–?!

Jokes on them though. Because they don’t know how much mental (let alone physical) work I’ve done. If this would’ve happened to me before I started at Solcana, I bet I would’ve been pretty hurt. I bet this would’ve even knocked me out.

But I know what shape I’m in, and how hard I work. I know what goes into my body. I know where I’ve been, and I’m excited about where I’m going in this vessel. I know that even though I don’t fit the stereotype of what an athlete might look like, Solcana convinced me that I can still call myself one. I don’t have to look a certain way to be a total badass.

And furthermore, even if I didn’t do any of that stuff and sat around all damn day–let me just say for the record–that nobody has any say about my body but me. Not the media, not family, not even doctors. NOBODY. Period. (Can I get an Amen?!)

And I know I’ve said it before, but it begs repeating: “Fat” is not a four letter word. It’s just an adjective. And even though seemingly harmless adjectives can still be really triggering and hurtful, it doesn’t hurt me anymore. The work I’ve been doing at Solcana has slowly helped me evolve past it.

Or so I thought…

As the week went on, even though I had pretty much dropped it, the incident started to gnaw at me. Like a sliver in my paw. I couldn’t quite place my feelings. I knew I wasn’t sad about it. I was pissed. Like SUPER pissed off.

How dare he?! This slightly inebriated guy, trying to make his work buddies laugh at my expense probably didn’t give his comment another thought. And yet somehow, it seems to be ruining my week.

And I started to feel helpless. Like no matter how hard I work, and how hard I try, there is always going to be some douche-canoe out there ready to thwart me and my efforts at every turn. Like I can’t catch a break. I mean, how tough does the world need me to be in order to live in this body?!

Because not only do I live my life in a body that society can’t seem to accept, but they also never let me forget it either. And the only time I can get reprieve is if I apologize for being this way, and act like I hate myself, or promise I’m working to change it. Why can’t I just BE?

I’m so sick of having to defend myself, and then prove that body love is possible, real, and not just lip-service. I have to fiercely protect it, and never waiver. Never back down. Never give in. It’s a fight I didn’t want, but find myself eternally battling. And it’s friggin’ exhausting.

Because I’m human. And I have a right to experience the full array of complex emotions that one can have with their body. But if I show any weakness to the unforgiving masses, then it feels like I’m letting the haters win. I’m letting them hurt me. Like they can go, “See! We were right after all! You DO hate your body. Because you should. I mean, just LOOK at you.”

This was my thought process. And I managed to whip myself into a frenzy. This helplessness is where my rage really lives, and I could feel something snap. My ears started buzzing. You may recall last time I did this, I broke a brush. (See week 33 blog post.) But instead of destroying another brush, I thought I would do one better.

I left my apartment and drove 3 blocks to the nearest Taco Bell and ordered two full meals. You know when you order so much food they give you two sets of silverware? Yeah. That’s right.

I was going to self-destruct. Death by Chalupa, and no one could stop me! If this is what America thinks of me, might as well give ’em what they want right?! What’s the point trying to be anything else? Then I gorged myself. Right there in the parking lot. I ate angrily. I ate without enjoyment. And I ate it all.

When I was done, I didn’t cry. I didn’t have some catharsis. I just sat there. Numb. What the hell just happened? After months and months of mindful eating, I thought this was behind me. My relationship to food has changed so much. But here we are again. Eating to escape, to punish, to mollify. Anything to appease the beast.

I felt like the classic story of Jekyll and Hyde. One minute a mild-mannered, amiable woman– the next– an aggressive Taco Bell monster wild-eyed with sour cream on her chin. When I finally came to my senses, I was even more angry that this one small incident could tip me over the edge.

I put my car into drive and headed home in silence. I drank a huge glass of water and crawled into bed. I didn’t have the strength to unpack what had happened. And I could already feel the effects of the fast food on my stomach.

The next morning I woke up, and despite a few more trips to the bathroom than usual, I was feeling okay. I knew what I had done. I had eaten to escape. To be destructive. I used that food like a drug. It was so clear, even as it was happening. But it was even clearer in the daylight. I mean, it’s one thing to get Taco Bell because you were out partying at the bar, and you’re having “one of those nights”… but this was joyless.

And I realized, it’s not really me anymore.

I made myself a delicious breakfast, and ate it intentionally. I was thankful for the real food. And as I munched my meal I thought about last night. Yes, it was intense. But there was a time when that kind of ruinous behavior would’ve lasted for weeks. Even months.

I could feel myself not needing to do that. Even when I did it that night, I knew it felt odd. Because that behavior no longer gave me the relief I needed. Kinda like smoking a cigarette after being quit for 10 years. You no longer crave the nicotine, so it just tastes like gross smoke in your mouth.

After breakfast I got dressed, and made a point to give myself a long hard look in the mirror. To really take myself in. I noticed new outlines of muscles all over my body. Physical reminders of the hard work and effort I put in.

That guy that heckled me will never know this me. The one that falls down, but gets back up again. The one that keeps fighting. He’ll never see the glory of all this body can do. It’s hard to admit, but his words did hurt me. And I think I got so mad because I didn’t want them to. But even though they hurt, I know they will not, cannot, break me. I’m too damn strong for that.

And with that realization, I did a few baller bi-cep flexes in my full-length. And I giggled.

I wasn’t laughing at myself out of ridicule, or cruelty. Like that guy did. Like that crowd. I was laughing because I felt happy.

For the first time in forever, I looked at myself and liked what I saw. Flaws and all.

“Not bad Anderson,” I said out loud. “Who’s laughing now Sucka?”