Up in Flames

As far back as I can remember, I've hated my body.  No really...I don't think I remember a point in time in which I didn't have negative associations with my body. I've always felt fat (which now I am, but there was a point in time that I totally wasn't, but still felt fat). I've always felt ashamed. And some things never change...but then again, some things do when you least expect it, right? 
My earliest memory of negative associations with my body were at a stupid young age. Perhaps 3 or 4?  Pretty much the very age at which you begin to remember things.  And at that point I had already been lovingly nicknamed by my parents as "Lard Bucket" Awwww, right?  TO this day, they don't see anything wrong with that...actually, I can't say I know for certain whether they still feel that way today.  I haven't had that discussion with them probably 10 years or so, and I don't intend to revisit that debate. But last I heard, which was probably around 2002ish, they still thought calling their daughter Lard Bucket was nothing but a term of endearment and had absolutely zero influence to her body image. It was in fact MY fault that I was miserable in my own skin.  Now my mom may not always be right, but I'll give her this much.  This time was at least half right.

 My next memory was probably around 9 or so??  I had been playing flag football for several years, and was quite enjoying it.  Sure, there weren't many girls on the league, but I was good at it.  Most
importantly, I felt liked. And my parents would come and watch my games.  My dad seemed exceptionally proud that his girl was able to plow through a line of boys. And while he probably should have been proud for different reasons, whatever.  I took the adda'girls where I could. Well,as luck would have it, my mom spotted breasts growing on me, and I was quickly yanked from the team. It was now deemed inappropriate. I was told one day when I was older, I would understand (I don't). But I couldn't play with the boys anymore. Fuck boobs. 

Well, those boobs continued to grow. And my mom was fixated on what was happening to me physically.  Not like creepy fixated. But she was very weirded out by it...very nervous.  At some point in time she had convinced herself that my breast growth was not normal.  I heard her telling my aunt (a nurse) "She looks like one of those National Geographic people!"  Reading this now, I laugh a little.  I mean what does that even fucking MEAN?!?!  But back then I was close enough to the insanity to know exactly what she meant.  She meant my boobs were weird. They weren't normal. They weren't pretty.  So she made me lift my shirt to show my aunt (DING!! trauma!) Who suggested that my mom ask the doctor.

So my mom scheduled an appointment with the pediatrician to discuss these ugly abnormal National
Geographic like boobs.  It was bad enough having to show my tits to my aunt, but lifting them up to a
strange man?  I don't know if this really happened, or if this is just what I PERCEIVED happened (I'm hoping it's the latter). But he glanced, looked horrified (at least that's how I remember it) and then muttered something about how it just means I'll be able to breastfeed a bunch of kids...which I actually did end up doing, but it had absolutely nothing to do with the National Geographic nature of my boobs...just the fact that they were boobs.  Silly doctor.

Perhaps a year after the boobs destroyed my life, fatness krept in.  Our household wasn't exactly the healthiest. I mean we weren't fast food junkies or anything, but we did have unlimited and unmonitored access to soda and candy bars. And that worked just fine for my brother who ended up with nothing but a bunch of cavities from gorging himself.  I on the other hand did not have his skinny minny build.  Perhaps I had started emotionally eating at this stage?? I don't recall.  I remember really enjoying candy bars!! And I remember I'd save my allowance so I could buy a huge candybar that students were selling for fundraisers (even though I had unlimited access at home, I just couldn't wait).  But I can't say for certain if I had started unconsciously emotionally eating at that point.  But one thing is certain, unlimited candy/soda combined with removing all activity is a recipe for fatness. 

And then one night...it must have been near bedtime because I was up in my room just kind of hanging out.  My mom came in my bedroom, grabbed my arm and told me to come with her. Then she instructed me to stand on the scale.  This here isn't just my perception of what happened...this is the real deal. She freaked the fuck out.  I don't recall what the number was, but I remember she yelled it out like "ONE HUNDRED AND FUCKIN FATTY POUNDS?!?!?!?!"  And I went to bed crying my eyes out because I was a fat dissapointment. And while my mom was the one who put me on the scale, I knew that dad knew too. That he had been sitting there having this conversation with her about how fat I'd become and how disgusting it was. And she took that as him insulting her not taking care of the kids properly and of course it all culminated into one giant traumatic experience.  That one hurt bad.  Worse than the boobs, because the boobs it was known that I couldn't control them.  This one was my fault. 
The next morning I woke up to Slimfast and celery sticks while the rest of the family ate cinnamon roles and chocolate milk.  For lunch I had Slimfast and something equally as unappealing as celery...perhaps raw broccoli or something.  The candy bars and soda were now LOCKED so I couldn't get to them. And now I was forced to walk the circle driveway for a set amount of time a day...which bored the crap out of me. We did have an entire forest to explore right in their backyard, but they wanted to make sure I was doing it. So they could watch and monitor me if I stayed doing circles on the driveway.  It was hell...I felt so deprived of absolutely everything.  It felt like punishment...and well, it WAS punishment. The weight DID come off.  There were no ifs/ands/buts about it, that shit had to choice but to come off. And with the weight loss, and I guess some pride?  I mean I felt it as pride, but looking back I was more than likely internalizing a horrible message.  That thinness makes you likeable and loveable.  That your self worth is based upon your physical attractiveness which is also based upon your weight.  Back when I was fat I was a shameful person who disgusted even the people who were supposed to love me the most. But now I was worthy of love.  Whatever, I didn't care then.  I was liked by people. My parents were pleased. And I got a bunch of cute new clothes out of the deal.

  Through most of high school I maintained my weight. Which really is a miracle because I again was eating like shit.  It wasn't candy bars and soda so much anymore, but I started to become a fast food junkie.  I mean I had my own car now, I wasn't confined to what was in the house!! There were gas stations with chips, taco bells open late, and super sized insanity EVERYWHERE!!  And by some miracle, I was able to eat this without getting fat.  Of course, I also was on the basketball team and played in a million other off season leagues as well.  So I was very active about 2-3 hours of every day.

Then college came, and my crappy eating habits intensified, except now I wasn't an athlete anymore.  I'd gone from a very active lifestyle to a completely sedentary one.  On top of that, I was always just a few floors away from some heavenly, deep fried, heavily salted, greasy heart attack on a plate.  Oh, and by now I had added alcohol to the equation.  So I was pounding in calories with alcohol...eating shit...and eating more shit than usual because it had to soak up all the alcohol and I didn't move. Not shockingly, I went from looking slim and fit (even though nutritionally speaking I was still a wreck), to being fat, jiggly and pasty.  Stretch marks popped up all over.  I remember not knowing what they were when I first saw them.  they first appeared on my stomach not as a streak, but as like a hollow  feeling dot.  When I actually realized it was scarring because I had gotton too fat too fast, I was devastated.  I mean here I thought I had beat fatness back when I was like 10-11!!! I was humiliated.  I mean I remember feeling as if it all snuck on me??  But I don't understand exactly how it possibly could have. I mean I must have outgrown several sizes of clothes.  I mean you HAVE TO realize that at one point you were buying a size 12 and now you're buying a size 22, right??  But you know, looking back there wasn't much in my life that was mindful.  I wasn't mindful of what I ate. I wasn't mindful of what I drank.  I wasn't mindful of my relationships. And I definitely wasn't mindful of my emotions...I'd just stuff them with food and drown them in alcohol.  (Probably why when I quit drinking just feeling in general was extremely intense...overwhelmingly so.)

So was my adult life.  Filled with drinking perhaps 3x my caloric intake a day...maybe 4x if it was a good night.  Soaking up the alcohol with extra greasy pizza before I passed out for the evening.  Than gourging on a fully fried breakfast to help eat off the hangover the next morning. And hating myself.  It started with just hating my fat...I was keenly aware that fat was my issue because fatness had been my issue since I was a little girl! I was not so aware, at least not at first, that alcohol was also my issue. But I knew one thing.  I hated my body, and so did the rest of the world.  Yeah, that statement right there sounds a little presumptuous, but there is some truth in it.  People don't like fat people.  Fat people are treated differently. Talk to any former fatty about their life with fat and their life after fat. They'll confirm what I've said. Of course my mother and father hate me fat as well, and I have to be very gaurded in my conversations with them about any weight loss goals. For instance, if mom gets wind that I'm trying to loose weight, the next time I'm over there she will serve me a plate of raw cauliflower.  And then when I'm like "uh...is that it?"  She'll offer me up some fat free dip.  And when I ask if she has something more substantial, she'll roll her eyes and then present to me a triple layer double chocolate fudge cheesecake with a side of onion rings and sigh. And I can tell when she thinks I've gotton fatter because she buys me underwear that look like bed sheets. But those are my parents, and of course parents are known to push the boundaries from time to time.  And if they're MY parents, that would be non-stop all the time.  And I'm sensitive to them and their comments. Probably because it brings me back to those earlier painful memories.  And makes me want to bitch slap them a bit.
 But even step outside that immediate family scenario.  Take for instance, a family reunion where you are seeing relatives you haven't seen in quite some time.  Guess what they do as soon as you leave?  They talk about how fat you got!!  And don't you even TRY to pretend that's not the case!  When you haven't seen someone in awhile, and then they're fat, you say "oh my God, they sure did gain a LOT of weight!!" Or better yet, "wow, they look horrible."  Thanks for that assholes!! Even complete strangers hate fat complete strangers!  And don't lie about that shit either!  If you're driving down the street, and you see an obese woman exerting a bit of effort walking to wherever she's walking to.  Hell, she could be power walking even to help get rid of her fat.  People are still going to take the opportunity to say something, "Holy shit, look at that heffer!  Gonna have to pick up the pace a bit sweetie cos you got some work to do!"  Or walking by the beach...thin or "normal" sized women...then an overweight woman.  Don't even pretend that people don't say "Egads!! Put some clothes on!"  Because they do.  And you know they do. And guess what, I am KEENLY aware that they do.  Thus why I hate exercising in public.  Why I hate wearing a swimsuit. Why I hate shorts.  why I hate being seen.  I hate my body.  And the world hates my body too...but it feels like they hate me.

Now I'm not going to pretend that "starting today, I am going to love and adore my body...appreciate it's beauty and grace."  I'm sorry, I tried that about 4 years and 40 pounds ago, and I didn't buy my own bullshit then, and I'm not buying it now. My body is fat. It's not able to do all the things it should be  able to do if it were a healthy weight. It's not as asthetically pleasing after 30 plus years of gaining/loosing/gaining more/loosing a few/gaining a ton.  Not to mention add 3 babies to that mix.  It's full of stretch marks, it's skin is loose and hangs in some places. It's actually quite fucking gross in spots to be brutally honest. But perhaps that's good, because It's not about vanity anymore.  Regardless if I lost 100 pounds, I'm still going to have scars and hanging skin and all of that jazz. So I'm not in this game for vanity anymore...but I'm still playing. That's a good thing, right?  That means that there is still a little flame in me (however small) that is reaching out for happiness...that wants it bad. That there's a little part of me that loves me...even when it feels like I hate me.

 And that is the flame I'm choosing to fan. This is far from a roaring fire. Shit, it wasn't even sparks until a few months ago.  But I have made fire. And like any good survivalist knows, just ones ABILITY to make fire builds morale.  It keeps people going when normally they'd just huddle up into a ball to die.  And I've got fucking FIRE bitches!!! So I'm going to fan that tiny little flame. Keep my eyes focused on that tiny little glow. Feel the hints of warmth.  And let hope blaze into certainty and watch my life go up in love.  Peace.