I think the best way to start this off is to give you an understanding of my relationship with food. First, we have a relationship. That should say something. The healthy person eats to live, and I live to eat.
I'm not sure how it all started honestly. My memory only goes back to about age 4 and at that time, I wasn't conscious of much of anything. I didn't think about my body. I hadn't compared it to anyone else. I was just as clueless about food. I never thought of eating too much or too little. I don't recall being hungry at that age. I just remember being fed. I was a picky eater. Cold cuts made me nauseous. A hot egg sandwich could be ingested but if you tossed a hot drink in the mix (like tea or cocoa), I was tossing cookies. If my dinner had too many ingredients, I picked around it. My mom was always one green pepper or onion slice away from ruining my meal. The only thing I ate to the last drop without fail was pizza. Pizza, was king and I never knew that years later, it would still rule over me.
I can recall when I began to feel fat. The moment was very distinct.
My mother was a struggling single mom, and I knew that. So I never questioned leftovers, I never asked for anything when we were shopping (except for Pizza), I wore hand-me-downs from both my siblings without much care. Until one day... I was getting ready for school and my mother pulled out a skirt that belonged to my sister. She tried to fasten the buttons and there was no way it was going to happen. She then grabbed a pair of my brothers olive/brown corduroys and pulled them up over my waste. They buttoned. I never complained but that moment, I did. I hated those pants. They looked like boy pants and I was the kind of girl who dipped her lips in cherry kool-aid until they were stained to achieve the look of lipstick when playing "dress up". I wasn't going to go for corduroys that were dyed in a hue that reminded me of excrement. So, I fussed. My mother who didn't have much tolerance for any protest from her kids basically told me to get over it. That wasn't the problem. It was when she explained to me that my sister was smaller than I was at her age and I can't fit her clothes, that there became a problem. I had to wear my brother's pants instead. That is my first memory of being aware of my size. I had to wear something I hated, because I wasn't small enough to fit what I'd preferred to wear.
I was probably in about the 2nd grade when that happened. I hadn't realized it impacted me within that moment. I only identified my earliest issue with my size as I began to write this. Here's what I've learned: these moments aren't harmful in solitude. It's when they bring their friends, which are about a hundred more moments just like it that you feel outnumbered by the things that hurt you and make you feel insecure. That's when the seed is planted. The following years, your dysfunction grows and people's stupid opinions water the seed of dysfunction and help it grow.
Who did the corduroy pants moment recruit to aid in my emotional beat down? The Indian Pediatrician Moment, that's who. I went to he pediatrician, she had me take my shirt off. I did. My mother was in the room and I hadn't felt uncomfortable at all... until she laughed at my breasts. I won't lie. I had an accumulation of fatty tissue in my breast area that didn't have even a pinch of puberty in them. My nipples were still inverted slits. However, what I perceived as a non-issue and hadn't given any thought became an issue when the doctor slapped at my "baby fat" as she called it and laughed. I giggled (out of embarrassment) and cowered, and my mother laughed with the doctor, thinking nothing of the doctors lack of professionalism.
Afterward, I told my mother I never wanted to see the Indian Pediatrician again. I told her I didn't appreciate her slapping at my breasts or making fun of me. She understood and told me the doctor meant no harm. I accepted her explanation, but now that I'm older.... no one ever means harm do they? Still here I am, harmed.
By the time I was in 5th grade, I knew that I was chubby. I had baby fat. I had no neck. I had a high waist. I needed to get a certain cut of dress to work with my shape. I was only slender when I was sick. After I got well, I put on weight. I knew my clothes were always passed off to my friends in my age group because my sizing was ahead of my age. I didn't fit into what retailers said I should. I wasn't normal. If I was normal, I wasn't like everyone else. This was the logic of a 10 year old. When it came to my appearance, that's what I knew about me and I learned it by hearing what everyone else was saying. Some of those "factoids" were almost direct quotes. See, telling someone that a certain cut of clothing works best for their shape isn't a problem. It does however, become a problem when that person is often told about their shape and now everything associated with it is a remedy to conceal, flatter, or overcome it. Dressing isn't fun when it become strategic.
Despite becoming body conscious, I still tried my best to dress as I wanted. I watched the cute girls have boys chase them around the school yard and I was always the confidante or matchmaker. No one crushed on me. So I scribbled passionately in my journal about the day I would lose all of my baby fat, and be a beautiful young woman.
Years later, I lost the weight. I had graduated to being a "thick" girl. I think that thick is just under the fat line but doesn't make the cut for the slender category. Boys liked me. Most times, I liked myself but the obsession with my size never stopped. By age 18 I had done the cabbage soup diet, the one slice of pizza a day diet, the I'm too into my boyfriend to eat diet, the turkey sandwich, raisin bran and pizza every day diet, the can of soup for every meal diet, and more. No matter what my size, I always wanted to be smaller. It didn't help that any time I reduced my weight, people would comment with approval. Approval is positive. Approval came with compliments. I find this funny because many of the same people who offered me approval and praise when I lost weight are the same people who tell me I wasn't fat during the time I was desperately trying to lose. Still sorting that out. I already know the perception of my body is skewed terribly. I never know when I am really big or small enough. My weight goal is a number because I'm almost sure that at that number, I would be what I consider thin. Looking at pictures, I never see thin. I only see thinner than I was back in (insert year here). You would think in such a situation you can rely on someone else who isn't as close to your sickness. A healthy person can tell you if you are fat or thin. But they don't. They just comment on the losses, and tell you later you never needed to lose. They stay silent on your weight gain, unless they feel the need to tell you. When they do, you crumble inside.They don't intend to harm you, right? We covered that a few paragraphs earlier. Let's move along.
So now I know how this started. I was confident, stripped of it, and insecure as a result for the next three decades or so. Now, I'm here.
Every food is assigned to an emotion and I eat my feelings rather than endure them. I can do an entire blog about Pizza. Pizza is my supreme comfort food. Happiness is pizza, sadness is pizza. Pizza is a like a warm blanket and a kiss on the forehead saying "feel better". When my mother wanted to treat us for dinner, it was pizza. When I was in HS and we all met up for lunch or after school, we laughed, chat and ate pizza. When my mother did buy anything for me when we ran errands, she would fork over a dollar and buy me pizza. Pizza was positive. It's just very negative to eat half a pie of pizza because you don't know how you're going to pay your bills on time. It's just as bad to eat three loaded slices of pizza because you're home alone with nothing to go along with your movie binge. That's how pizza works in my life. Pizza has derailed me from many a diet plan. Food is comprised of many drugs for me and pizza is of my favorite drugs of choice.
I have reached a point where I lack the will power to adhere to any diet and exercise program for more than a week or two. If the scale doesn't tip in my favor, that will send me into a binge. I eat everything I feel like eating. Then I feel awful. Then I get back on the wagon (often extreme). Repeat. Many things send me into a binge. It's hard not to give into binge eating because food isn't illegal and the worst foods are often very inexpensive.
Admitting that I"m addicted to food is hard to do. I wanted to say I had a bad habit but I know that I'm an addict. It also doesn't help that food is not something you don't need to live. I have to eat, I just have to learn how to eat well. When people tell me to treat myself to "bad" foods only on occasion, I scoff at the idea. That's like telling a coke head to only snort on weekends. It's not going to work. If I had the control that comes with eating "bad" food sometimes I wouldn't be struggling with my weight. I can easily fluctuate 25lbs within a year. That's because I'm in and out of diet "rehab". This thing is serious.
My favorite thing that people don't get about emotional eating and food addiction is that holidays are a nightmare for me. The entire holiday season is centered around food, family and gifts. The delicious dishes that people are excited about scare me. I'm excited, but I also know that every bite is another calorie and every calorie is another pound and I won't know when to stop. I will eat until I physically can not. Then I will feel terrible, wake up the next day and eat leftovers. The irony in this is I silently obsess over the calories and am usually the only overweight person at the darn family gathering. I'm afraid to take a bite while no one else is thinking about doing anything else but eating. So many occasions call for food as celebration. This is like inviting a recovering addict to a crack house and expecting them to only take one hit when the table is laid with all sorts of goodies to partake of.
As you can tell by now, every day is a struggle. Free food is always hard to pass up, bad food is too easy to afford, life is filled with ups and downs and with those highs and lows come a myriad of emotions and there is a dish that is going to hit the spot for all of them.
I don't know how to be cured of this issue. I've considered hypnosis, a gastric band, therapy. However, I always try for the tried and true diet change and exercise. I don't know why I don't want a more formal structure for my "rehab".
So what am I going to try to do now? Go semi-cold turkey. I'm putting myself on a liquid diet. I don't want to eat. I doubt this is healthy, but the torment of feeling immense in combination of having an arsenal of clothing you will never fit again hanging in your closet makes you a bit extreme.
I have to treat myself like an addict and step one needs to be cold turkey. I can't eat. I have to get used to not eating. I need to get used to eating only when I'm hungry. I need to get used to eating good things when I am hungry. Then I need to deal with what to do when I am sad, happy, depressed and every damned thing in-between. I have a long road ahead of me. So far I've had coffee and a kale and peach smoothie. Step one.
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| photo courtesy of www.grandparents.com |
I can recall when I began to feel fat. The moment was very distinct.
My mother was a struggling single mom, and I knew that. So I never questioned leftovers, I never asked for anything when we were shopping (except for Pizza), I wore hand-me-downs from both my siblings without much care. Until one day... I was getting ready for school and my mother pulled out a skirt that belonged to my sister. She tried to fasten the buttons and there was no way it was going to happen. She then grabbed a pair of my brothers olive/brown corduroys and pulled them up over my waste. They buttoned. I never complained but that moment, I did. I hated those pants. They looked like boy pants and I was the kind of girl who dipped her lips in cherry kool-aid until they were stained to achieve the look of lipstick when playing "dress up". I wasn't going to go for corduroys that were dyed in a hue that reminded me of excrement. So, I fussed. My mother who didn't have much tolerance for any protest from her kids basically told me to get over it. That wasn't the problem. It was when she explained to me that my sister was smaller than I was at her age and I can't fit her clothes, that there became a problem. I had to wear my brother's pants instead. That is my first memory of being aware of my size. I had to wear something I hated, because I wasn't small enough to fit what I'd preferred to wear.
I was probably in about the 2nd grade when that happened. I hadn't realized it impacted me within that moment. I only identified my earliest issue with my size as I began to write this. Here's what I've learned: these moments aren't harmful in solitude. It's when they bring their friends, which are about a hundred more moments just like it that you feel outnumbered by the things that hurt you and make you feel insecure. That's when the seed is planted. The following years, your dysfunction grows and people's stupid opinions water the seed of dysfunction and help it grow.
Who did the corduroy pants moment recruit to aid in my emotional beat down? The Indian Pediatrician Moment, that's who. I went to he pediatrician, she had me take my shirt off. I did. My mother was in the room and I hadn't felt uncomfortable at all... until she laughed at my breasts. I won't lie. I had an accumulation of fatty tissue in my breast area that didn't have even a pinch of puberty in them. My nipples were still inverted slits. However, what I perceived as a non-issue and hadn't given any thought became an issue when the doctor slapped at my "baby fat" as she called it and laughed. I giggled (out of embarrassment) and cowered, and my mother laughed with the doctor, thinking nothing of the doctors lack of professionalism.
Afterward, I told my mother I never wanted to see the Indian Pediatrician again. I told her I didn't appreciate her slapping at my breasts or making fun of me. She understood and told me the doctor meant no harm. I accepted her explanation, but now that I'm older.... no one ever means harm do they? Still here I am, harmed.
By the time I was in 5th grade, I knew that I was chubby. I had baby fat. I had no neck. I had a high waist. I needed to get a certain cut of dress to work with my shape. I was only slender when I was sick. After I got well, I put on weight. I knew my clothes were always passed off to my friends in my age group because my sizing was ahead of my age. I didn't fit into what retailers said I should. I wasn't normal. If I was normal, I wasn't like everyone else. This was the logic of a 10 year old. When it came to my appearance, that's what I knew about me and I learned it by hearing what everyone else was saying. Some of those "factoids" were almost direct quotes. See, telling someone that a certain cut of clothing works best for their shape isn't a problem. It does however, become a problem when that person is often told about their shape and now everything associated with it is a remedy to conceal, flatter, or overcome it. Dressing isn't fun when it become strategic.
Despite becoming body conscious, I still tried my best to dress as I wanted. I watched the cute girls have boys chase them around the school yard and I was always the confidante or matchmaker. No one crushed on me. So I scribbled passionately in my journal about the day I would lose all of my baby fat, and be a beautiful young woman.
Years later, I lost the weight. I had graduated to being a "thick" girl. I think that thick is just under the fat line but doesn't make the cut for the slender category. Boys liked me. Most times, I liked myself but the obsession with my size never stopped. By age 18 I had done the cabbage soup diet, the one slice of pizza a day diet, the I'm too into my boyfriend to eat diet, the turkey sandwich, raisin bran and pizza every day diet, the can of soup for every meal diet, and more. No matter what my size, I always wanted to be smaller. It didn't help that any time I reduced my weight, people would comment with approval. Approval is positive. Approval came with compliments. I find this funny because many of the same people who offered me approval and praise when I lost weight are the same people who tell me I wasn't fat during the time I was desperately trying to lose. Still sorting that out. I already know the perception of my body is skewed terribly. I never know when I am really big or small enough. My weight goal is a number because I'm almost sure that at that number, I would be what I consider thin. Looking at pictures, I never see thin. I only see thinner than I was back in (insert year here). You would think in such a situation you can rely on someone else who isn't as close to your sickness. A healthy person can tell you if you are fat or thin. But they don't. They just comment on the losses, and tell you later you never needed to lose. They stay silent on your weight gain, unless they feel the need to tell you. When they do, you crumble inside.They don't intend to harm you, right? We covered that a few paragraphs earlier. Let's move along.
So now I know how this started. I was confident, stripped of it, and insecure as a result for the next three decades or so. Now, I'm here.
Every food is assigned to an emotion and I eat my feelings rather than endure them. I can do an entire blog about Pizza. Pizza is my supreme comfort food. Happiness is pizza, sadness is pizza. Pizza is a like a warm blanket and a kiss on the forehead saying "feel better". When my mother wanted to treat us for dinner, it was pizza. When I was in HS and we all met up for lunch or after school, we laughed, chat and ate pizza. When my mother did buy anything for me when we ran errands, she would fork over a dollar and buy me pizza. Pizza was positive. It's just very negative to eat half a pie of pizza because you don't know how you're going to pay your bills on time. It's just as bad to eat three loaded slices of pizza because you're home alone with nothing to go along with your movie binge. That's how pizza works in my life. Pizza has derailed me from many a diet plan. Food is comprised of many drugs for me and pizza is of my favorite drugs of choice.
I have reached a point where I lack the will power to adhere to any diet and exercise program for more than a week or two. If the scale doesn't tip in my favor, that will send me into a binge. I eat everything I feel like eating. Then I feel awful. Then I get back on the wagon (often extreme). Repeat. Many things send me into a binge. It's hard not to give into binge eating because food isn't illegal and the worst foods are often very inexpensive.
Admitting that I"m addicted to food is hard to do. I wanted to say I had a bad habit but I know that I'm an addict. It also doesn't help that food is not something you don't need to live. I have to eat, I just have to learn how to eat well. When people tell me to treat myself to "bad" foods only on occasion, I scoff at the idea. That's like telling a coke head to only snort on weekends. It's not going to work. If I had the control that comes with eating "bad" food sometimes I wouldn't be struggling with my weight. I can easily fluctuate 25lbs within a year. That's because I'm in and out of diet "rehab". This thing is serious.
 |
| photo courtesy of www.pilatesnutritionist.com |
As you can tell by now, every day is a struggle. Free food is always hard to pass up, bad food is too easy to afford, life is filled with ups and downs and with those highs and lows come a myriad of emotions and there is a dish that is going to hit the spot for all of them.
I don't know how to be cured of this issue. I've considered hypnosis, a gastric band, therapy. However, I always try for the tried and true diet change and exercise. I don't know why I don't want a more formal structure for my "rehab".
So what am I going to try to do now? Go semi-cold turkey. I'm putting myself on a liquid diet. I don't want to eat. I doubt this is healthy, but the torment of feeling immense in combination of having an arsenal of clothing you will never fit again hanging in your closet makes you a bit extreme.
I have to treat myself like an addict and step one needs to be cold turkey. I can't eat. I have to get used to not eating. I need to get used to eating only when I'm hungry. I need to get used to eating good things when I am hungry. Then I need to deal with what to do when I am sad, happy, depressed and every damned thing in-between. I have a long road ahead of me. So far I've had coffee and a kale and peach smoothie. Step one.
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