A short story I wrote that started as a post on this very site has found a home!
Please check it out if you get a chance.
http://thedoctortjeckleburgreview.com/2012/11/16/the-measure-of-us/
The Movie Flight: Allow me to Ruin it For You.
(SPOILER ALERT) I recently saw the movie, Flight, with Denzel Washington, and it stunned me. Not because of its quality, which is okay but not great, but because of the storyline. If ever there was a crystal clear example of addiction, this was it. Denzel’s character, Whip, was grasping at life, trying to beat the addiction that threatened to engulf him. And all I could see on that screen was…me. I have suspected for years that I was a food addict, but never had it been made so obvious to me as this weekend as I watched Whip’s behavior which was so eerily similar. Three key behaviors resonated with me.
1. Purge. No, not the kind where you’re bent over a toilet, but the kind of purge you perform often on Monday mornings where you think to yourself- This is it. I’m done. This diet starts today. You then proceed to throw everything you deem as “junk food” into the garbage can, bag it up, and drag it out to the curb. Whip did the same thing with his booze, several times. And each time he ended up at the liquor store within a few days time.
2. Lie. One of the cornerstones of the movie is Whip’s ability to lie about his addiction. In fact, in one of my favorite lines of the film is when he tells his lawyer, “Don’t tell me how to lie about my drinking, I’ve been doing it my whole life.” I lied about my eating, all the time. To myself, to my family, to perfect strangers.
3. Regret. Like a drunk, I began many a days with a food hangover. Knowing I gorged myself the night before, knowing I destroyed my diet and broke my resolve, I would feel AWFUL the next day. Like I robbed someone of something intangible. Like I blew something up inside of me.
I have made many excuses about my reluctance to face my food addiction. I have made the argument that food addiction is very difficult to overcome since we must continue to eat, while alcoholics can completely avoid their substance of choice, we cannot. But this is bullshit. I am not addicted to all food, I am addicted to high sugar, high calorie, high fat foods. I can eat things that do not contain these ingredients. Just like alcoholics can drink iced tea, lemonade, soda, etc.
I have made many excuses, but when I saw that movie, I realized what my world looks like. I realized what I’m doing. I’m still doing, even though I’ve gained remarkable control over my eating, I’m still a long way from where I need to be. I’m not sure how to get back, how to find solace. But I think it’s time I face what I am.
I am a food addict.
Much more on this to come.
Dr Oz and The Magical Melting Belly
Somehow I think Dr. Oz will fix me. I’m not sure where or how this idea originated, I just know it exists I don’t watch his show, or any daytime talk for that matter. I don’t own any book he’s ever written, yet I feel a strange kinship with the good doctor, as his marketing team intended, I’m sure. So even though I know what I need to do to feel better about myself, and even though I’ve started embracing my life and who I am without letting my inner critic destroy me, I still compulsively reach for the magazine. You know the one…. the thin, glossy monthly that promises Dr. Oz’s miracle diet will peel 80 pounds from your belly in just two months.
The truth is, I know what I need to do. I know enough about nutrition and processed foods and all of the bad stuff, that I can and do make good food decisions now. Yet, it never fails, I never empty my grocery bags without seeing Dr. Oz’s face, or the promise of a quick fix, staring up at me. What am I expecting to find anyway? I guess, if I’m being honest, I expect to find help of some kind. An answer. A solution. I expect to find some sort of unraveling to the riddle that has engulfed me for the better part of my life. OOhhhhh, it’s food X that’s the problem. That’s it, food X! I can eat cake and pizza and anything else I want all the time and drop weight like rain. Only, the answer is not there. Yes, Theresa from California lost 68 pounds in thirteen weeks, and Martha from St. Louis has her sex drive back, but I am not Theresa or Martha. I am me. And the answer to my problems is not on the cover of a weekly periodical with Dr. Oz’s white teeth shining out at me. The answer is within me.
Scale Update: Still no weigh in. I went to the doctors last week and was terrified he was going to fight me on this. Instead, I ended up in a pow wow with three nurses who loved the idea of giving up the scale. On another note, I discovered yet another benefit. Without my scale and it’s lack of motion, I can make smaller, long term changes and stick with them. For example, I recently gave up sweets. No more candy, no more baked goods, nothing of the sort. Before the Scale Diet, I would have given up if my scale had not shown immediate results… oh screw it, why am I depriving myself? It’s clearly not working... But now, I feel good and I feel proud of myself that I’m making these changes and the numbers on a scale are not derailing that progress.
So I’m Writing a Book
So I’m writing a book about being overweight, about being diagnosed with PCOS, about thinking and believing that I would never have a baby. I’m writing about how, ironically, I was the only woman in my family who ever wanted a baby, yet the only one who could not produce one. And when I write these sentences and the narrative begins to take shape, the pain and misery of those years almost takes my breath away. It’s as if writing this story has me standing on the edge of something and I’m ready to fall. I remember those days when seeing my friends with their babies would make me want to barricade myself indoors for months. I remember being divorced and feeling like I was nothing, less than a woman, less than a human even, because I was barren and fat. And what did I have to offer anyone?
My story may not be extraordinary My story may not matter to most. But I have to go forward and believe that it will matter to someone, even if that someone is just me.
The Universe Between Us
Alone, I am a star burning against the night sky. I am lost in a blanket of darkness, a heaving illuminated mass threatening to collapse in on itself. But together, Timmy and I are a galaxy, a vast wonderful world of possibilities. We are bright and organized, burning into one another with fire and fever. We are celestial. We are so fucking fantastic together that I know deep down inside, it is only a matter of time until we fizzle out, or at least until I fuck it all up.
Things have been going swimmingly thus far. Timmy has all but moved in, staying six out of seven nights at my apartment. In the mornings, he crawls out of bed and makes coffee for the two of us. In the evenings, he sits and listens as I play my guitar. We talk constantly. We make love almost every day, in every nook and cranny of the apartment. We orbit one another in perfect harmony. But I am terrified. I have yet to tell Timmy about my addiction to food, about my daily uphill climb. I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but I am. I’m ashamed that I am not strong enough to be thin on my own, that I need assistance.
Then, there’s an element of insecurity. I know that if I just let myself, I could fall madly in love with this man. But I wonder if he could ever really fall in love with me. This thought is an aftershock from my divorce. This is what happens when someone leaves you for real. This is what breaks inside of you when someone walks out on you and earthquakes your foundation. When the person who is supposed to love you the most in the world, flips a switch and chooses another. And you are not enough, not good enough, anymore. That betrayal reverses something in your brain. It makes you doubt your market value. Because whether I ever want to admit it or not, there is a small sliver of truth to the idea that Jack left me because I let my body balloon into obesity.
And now, I cannot act like a normal, untainted, self-assured woman. Because I will never be that. You can carve every ounce of fat from my body, and I will still never be able to walk around naked in front of you, trust whole heartedly that you are where you say you are, or sleep at night basking in the calmness of our union. No matter how beautiful I look on the outside, I will always feel like I am selling you a used car that I know has been in an accident and will never again drive the same.
I wasn’t supposed to be insecure anymore. Like swallowing a pill, losing weight was supposed to instantly fix all of these neurotic, self-conscious thoughts swelling inside my brain. But I’m beginning to realize that being fat for so long has created a gushing wound that may never truly heal.
“Take off your shirt,” Timmy whispers and I freeze.
“No,” I answer. No, no, no, a thousand no’s.
“Why babe?” he wonders.
Why? How do I explain away the ripples of extra skin hanging below my belly button like rings on a tree, only instead of telling of my past, they tell of the future, the potential for thick ankles and triple chins? How do I explain to someone who has never stepped foot in the land of heavy that the weight of belonging to such a place comes at the cost of sanity? Timmy has never been fat, in fact he has spent his entire life underweight. And that, right there, that fact is the vast expansive universe between us. My insistence on lights off during sex, my one too many “checking in” phone calls, or questions about late night bar visits, all combine to comprise the wormhole through which Timmy will have to plunge if he ever hopes to really understand me. A wormhole so vast in size and density that it would take someone solely dedicated to the cause to get through and survive. I don’t know yet if Timmy has the resolve to hang in there. I hope he does, but I don’t need him to. And that, right there, is the big difference in my life from a year ago. I don’t need him to.
While I still cling to my shirt, a size medium that I stole from my sister, Jennie, during a visit to Brooklyn, a clingy white cotton tank that maintains enough elasticity to shave an inch off my belly, Timmy quietly extends an arm and clicks off the lamp. And in the safety of the darkness we are once again stars in our galaxy, burning and bumping our way into one another’s hearts, unsure of what will come next.
Take a Picture, It’ll Last Longer
It has been a month since I last weighed myself. Have I lost weight? I think so, but I don’t know for sure. Have I gained weight? I don’t think so, but I don’t know for sure. But there is one thing I am sure of: I am happier this month than I have been in a few years. I feel good about myself, genuinely so. I don’t have the guilt and shame hanging over me that is normally present in my everyday life. And the most amazing thing of all? I had a family picture taken! The family pic, you know, that thing I’ve been putting off until I lost thirty pounds? At that rate my kids would be thirty before the picture would happen.
Anyway, for you loyal followers of the blog, I offer up this sneak peek. Notice not only did I get the picture taken, but I’m actually putting it up for the world to see! Take that scale!
Our Life in 16-Bits
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The Super Nintendo: We met at a pool hall. I was sixteen, you were eighteen. You didn’t have a car or a job and were repeating your senior year of high school. You knew “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” by heart, and wore a pair of beat up chucks. You carried a notebook full of poetry. I fell in love with you. Kurt Cobain died. You cried. I loved you harder.
The Sony Playstation: You took me camping. It took some convincing for you to leave your room, your house, your city. You still didn’t have a job. We were still young. I worked at Sears. We pitched a tent and rented paddleboats. We paddled out onto an island in the middle of a lake where you told me you were in love with someone else. It’s been a long time and I can’t remember her name. I want to say Tracy, but maybe it’s Stacy, or Annie. She lived in a yellow house on Birney Avenue. I gave serious thought to burning it down. We unpitched our tent and I drove us home in sobs. Later, you told me you wanted me back, that you loved me more than the nameless girl.
The Nintendo 64: You came to see me at Sears with an engagement ring that you charged on my credit card. I wore it. Your mother was happy. Mine was not.
The Sega Dreamcast: I moved three hours away for school. You came and picked me up every weekend. You got a flat tire in a construction zone. You had a panic attack. I thought I would never see you again, but you kept going, you kept coming. You proved your love to me in miles. My parents divorced. You wrapped me in your arms and swallowed my sobs. You proved your love to me in shock absorbency. I moved home. We moved in together.
Sony Playstation 2: You were the manager in a video game store. You came home one night and told me you wanted to see other people. You kissed an employee. She wore bikinis. I was 250 pounds. It was a battle I could not win. We had a bad fight. I chased her down in a parking garage. You smashed the mirror on our new car. You drank gallons of wine each night. I poured one down our white porcelain sink. It looked like blood. You held a knife to my throat and your eyes were lucid with rage. Things were ugly. We lived in a basement. You tried to kill yourself by taking too many pills. I left you. I took you back. We moved upstairs. I could see the sun again. Things got a little better. We got married.
Will High School Be Awful For You? Yes.
This morning, when I logged onto The Fat Girl Blog , I was met with something disturbing. While glancing at my blog stats and seeing where all of my visitors are coming from, I noticed something in the “search terms” that deeply bothered me. Someone had found my blog by typing into Google the phrase “I’m a fat girl, will high school be awful for me?” This nearly broke my heart.
Coincidentally, the other day I was remembering high school with an intensity I hadn’t had in a long time. This search term has compelled me to share my high school experience with you (in hopes that the young woman will land on my page again).
I had the unique experience of attending both a public high school and a private high school. And they were very, very different. I was in public school my entire life. But when I reached high school, there were some things going on in my district that made my experience there less than desirable. Therefore I went to a private school my Junior and Senior years.
Catholic school was better, in terms of academics. But it was brutal on a social level. In public school I had been somewhat popular, I had friends, people I had known for most of my life. In private school I was an outcast. I was made fun of because my family didn’t have money, because I wrote poetry (who does that?!?), and lastly, because I was beginning to struggle with my weight. My peer’s ridicule only sent me further and faster into the comforting arms of food. So I spent my days in school not with the cheerleading squad or drinking in the woods on weekends, I was writing and reading. I was learning and bettering myself.
High school is a tough place. It’s full of people who judge you, snicker at you, and sometimes flat out make fun of you. But there are some positives to look forward to. Most of those people, the very popular ones who usually lead the charge in ridiculing others, peak in high school. After graduation they usually go on to do nothing much. They bang out a few kids and then whine about their lives on Facebook. They are bullies and their kids are usually bullies too. There’s nothing you can do about them.
And here’s the best news: High school ends. I never see the people I graduated with. Sure a few of them tried to friend me on Facebook, and I’ll accept because, hell, it’s been almost twenty years, but that’s it. They don’t have a daily influence on my life anymore.
Bottom line: will your life be hell in high school as a fat girl? Yes. But high school is hell (at times) whether you’re fat or thin. And it all ends rather quickly. Get through it, focus on yourself. Read, learn, and in the end you will win the race. You will outsmart and outwit them at every turn. And if you don’t? Just ignore their friend requests, they’ll go away.
The Fat Girl’s Guide to (not) Getting Pregnant
Step One: Want it. For years, I imagined Emily following me around with a blanket in her arms like Linus from the Charlie Brown cartoons. Her hair would fall into black ringlets that dripped to her shoulders like water. She would never grow over two feet tall in my mind. She would never get older, never go to Kindergarten, never drive a car, and never kiss a boy. She was a baby, my baby, and I wanted her more than anything.
Step Two: Marry an asshole. Emily’s existence was something more than my wanting a baby, it was my need to conjure up a friend, a companion, something to take care of. I was sad and lonely and fat and scared. I was a mess. Emily was supposed to save me from all of that.
Step Three: Have delusions. I had imagined making babies with ease, as if they were simply fruit- ripening on the trees around us- and all I had to do was pluck. I never imagined that skill was involved, that heartbreak was required, and that the one simple accomplishment that came so easily to my mother at seventeen, would be so nearly impossible to me only twenty-some years later. Suddenly there are Basal body temperatures, medication, plotting and charting. It was fucking-tempered with science and biology.
Step Four: Pray. I have never prayed so hard for anything or anyone. Dying grandparents, ailing friends, starving children in Ethiopia, abandoned pets on the Sarah McLachlan commercial, they all received half-hearted “not sure if I believe” prayers. But Emily, this baby that has yet to exist, this person I have yet to create, she receives all of me, every stitch of something deep and real inside of me. She has the prayer of a thousand suns beaming from my belly.
Step Five: Divorce the asshole. The day you left, Emily left with you. The ghost of a child I would never meet. I don’t know who I missed more. I cried for you, but I ached for her.
The Scale Smashing–The Video!
Today is the first day of my year-long project: The Scale Diet. As of today I am focusing on health instead of weight. I am focusing on happy instead of “not good enough.” I’m focusing on me, my children, my wonderful husband, my rewarding career, my exceptional family, and everything else in my life that is good. I’m not going to lie, I’m terrified. Being without my scale is like being a teenager: I have more freedom than I know what to do with, and I’m really afraid I will use that freedom for evil.
Recently, a friend and I had a small debate about whether or not this was a good idea. She’s concerned for my well-being, she’s concerned that no scale means a year of gluttony and that I will slip backwards into fat like it’s an invisible hole in the earth threatening to swallow me at any moment. Here was what I told her, and here is what I tell you:
I have been overweight for most of my life. Yes, I’ve had some success, but for the most part I have always struggled, and that struggle has impeded my happiness. I am turning 35 in less than a month, and I’m tired of answering to a scale. I’m tired of not living my life, the one I have-which, coincidentally-is the one I always dreamed of. When I was single, I dreamt that my life would consist of two little brown-haired girls and a fulfilling career that involved writing. That’s all I ever wanted. Now I have it. And I plan on enjoying it, fully.
So I’m giving up my scale. I choose instead to live a healthy lifestyle, to make the right food choices, to exercise regularly, and to not care what society thinks of me. Here is the video, I hope you enjoy it!
