I'm 34, mother to a blended family of six, although we only have my husband's three from his prior marriage in the summer and every other weekend the rest of the time. I live in a tiny little rural town located a little over 80 miles east of Denver. I drive about 50 miles to get decent produce, and even further if I want some crappy convenience like Walmart. :)
I would say that I struggled with my weight all of my life, but really, prior to having children, I struggled more with body image than with weight. I grew up in the deep south with a very poor (poor person's) diet. There were lots of greasy foods and very few fruits and veggies. I was, however, active. My parents were dealing with baggage of their own, so they wouldn't let me participate in group sports, but that didn't keep me from moving.
My first memory of thinking about my body shape and size was in junior high. I had a friend who wore a size 1, and I wore a 3. I don't know how tall I was at 13, but now I'm 5'9". I've also always been pretty muscular, even as a child. Anyway, my friend was helping me find an outfit, and she had me try on her size 1 jeans (which I could squeeze on), and she commented about how she wished she could have curves and muscles like me, and still fit into a 1 like me.
That's probably the last time I ever fit into that size. LOL
In high school, I can remember spending the week or so in the summer at my Mawmaw's house, and hearing comments in the background to my parents that I'll have to watch my weight when I'm older, judging by the way that I'm built. I overheard my dad questioning what that meant, and they talked about my butt and how I won't always have those muscles -- they "turn to fat." I graduated high school at 17, so there's no telling just how young I was when I overheard that conversation, but I definitely stored that knowledge away. I took it to mean that I was bigger than everyone else -- and doomed.
As another detail, I had been abused physically and sexually, parents divorced and remarried and living 1,000 miles apart, and a metric crap ton of other things that maybe I had or had not dealt with at the time.
I always felt huge in high school. I wore a size 9 in jeans b/c of my fabulously nicknamed "ghetto booty." I could wear a 7 in dresses. I never considered 5'9" to be TALL, since my model friends were much closer to 6' (and also closer to 100 lbs). I think my weight was always around 130ish, but I don't really know. I don't even think we had a scale in the house. I couldn't really control my food at this time, because my family not
only dished up our plates, but were card-carrying members of the clean
plate club. I remember poking at my soft belly and wishing I had visible abs. I remember doing aerobics in my bedroom until I couldn't stand up anymore. I remember a classmate in Algebra commenting about how muscular my arms were. It was such a compliment to me!
I went away to college just before my 18th birthday, and while there I went through a second puberty, it seems. My boobs grew, and so did my pimples. I also fell in love with running and weight lifting. And beer. In retrospect, I wonder if the beer and pimples were related? I wore a bikini. I got my belly button pierced. I occasionally wore a few shirts that showed a tiny bit of mid drift. All the while, I was loathing my soft body. I loved my legs, which were rock solid, and I would even watch them while I ran, admiring the way the muscles moved. But I felt huge everywhere else. I hated my stomach. I started watching my food intake then. I didn't follow anything specific, I just was aware that I was bigger than those around me (still a size 9 jeans), so I always made sure to eat less than anyone else at the cafeteria table.
That summer after my freshman year in college, I did not move home. I stayed with a family member, and I really don't remember eating. I honestly think I lived on rice (and beer)! Again, I stayed active. I played beach volleyball and ran. Somehow I became a smoker as well. I had become comfortable with my body again, though. I still liked my legs, and I grew to appreciate that ghetto booty as well.
Fast forward past a ton of other crap and get to my first date with my first husband. It was a group date, and I had on a shirt that showed a little of my stomach, but a jacket thing that covered most of it. It was actually one of my favorite outfits, and I left to go out feeling pretty confident. We were all walking, and my date said something to his buddy about being embarrassed of how I was dressed. I don't think I was supposed to hear that comment, and I assumed it was b/c of my lack of chiseled abs (not that I was wearing my Texas going-out clothes while in conservative cowboy country). Later on in the that same date, he was also joking with his buddy about my laugh. It was loud and fearless.... and evidently embarrassing to him. Something else my ex-husband said to me before we married was, "If you ever get fat like your mom, I'll just tie you behind the pickup. We'll go for a country drive. Those extra pounds? Well you can either run it off or drag it off, your choice. That's how we do it up here." He said it in a joking way, but man did those words stick with me.
I moved in with his parents, after mine kicked me out after a moral disagreement with a choice I had made. They were constantly juggling their diet. They did daily vita-mix smoothies for a while. Then they went "low-carb." Then they just talked about and judged other fat people. They asked me about my mom and other family history. They would ask me almost weekly if I had lost any weight and how much, and I'd hear about their victories as well. It was a constant fixation. There were other stressful factors in that living situation, and I took all of my aggression out at the gym. I jogged and walked outside during my lunch breaks from work. I went to the gym before work. I went to the gym after work. I waited tables at night. I was in the best shape of my life and I loved my body MOST of the time. I don't think I ever felt I was at an ideal weight, though.
Then I moved out on my own. My schedule remained much the same with work and workouts. Then I had a friend move in with me. I loved her (still do), and was always jealous of how thin and cute she was. I was always at least a size, probably two, bigger than her. Although I'm probably two inches taller than she is, I didn't feel like I was taller, I just felt fat. She borrowed a suit of mine that looked like a totally different outfit on her than it did on me. The skirt looked longer, and I didn't attribute that to her being a couple inches shorter, but to how much I filled that skirt out!
I eventually married that guy whose worst fear seemed to be marrying a girl who was really a fat chick in disguise. I ordered my wedding dress after falling in love with it in a bridal magazine, and I ordered a 12 (a size bigger than my current size). I didn't realize how off that sizing would be, and I had no idea that I'd basically have to commission a friend to remake the bodice for me to squeeze myself into. Post marriage I had gained some weight. Married life meant ceasing the two or three time a day workouts, but I still felt okay about myself. I was terrified of getting bigger, though. My jean size had gone up by one -- from a 9/10 to an 11/12. I was 21.
I went back to school shortly after getting married. I became familiar with downtown Denver's nightlife, and once again was confronted with comparison issues. I always felt like the fat friend. Or the not quite as cute friend. I still hated my stomach. I still mostly liked my legs, only now I was starting to be a little self-conscious of my thighs. My butt had lost some of its ghettofabulousness, mostly due to the increase in my waist's circumference. I never had any hips to speak of, so when I gained weight, I felt even less feminine. I crept up to a size 13/14 jeans while commuting back and forth to school, trying to work full time, and living in the middle of no where. I attributed it to no time to work out, lots of fast food eaten in my car, and very little sleep.
Next chapter -- motherhood. My weight had crept up to around 190 before having my first daughter. Seems the fears of that man I married were coming true. I was terrified of blowing up like a balloon during pregnancy since I was so close to that looming 200 pound mark. I wanted to love pregnancy, and as long as I wasn't shopping or looking at myself naked, I did. I did cry when I crossed the 200lb threshold, though. I vowed that I'd never be back there again. I birthed a healthy baby girl, and before she was a year old, I lost back down to 168 and was feeling pretty good about myself and my ability to get my body back.
My marriage, on the other hand, was nothing to feel good about. This was the same man who made the comments about weight while we were dating, and it really never got much better. But I came from a background of poverty, abuse, neglect, and a few jerkhead boyfriends who used drugs and beat me when I told them that I always envisioned a better life for myself than what I saw in front of me. This man I married? He was stable, mostly nice, had a nice family, and drugs or beatings were ever a part of our relationship. From my frame of reference, he was a solid keeper! He actually is a better man than that probably paints him out to be, but we were not good together.
I got pregnant with my second child in a not-exactly-consensual setting, and had no idea that I could even be pregnant until I was about 8 weeks along. I was devastated because I desperately wanted OUT of that relationship but had no means of supporting myself and my child... let alone CHILDREN. I felt trapped. I was frustrated because I had worked so hard with my diet and exercise to get down to ALMOST goal weight. Weight Watchers and weight lifting and running had done me well and I was just starting to hit my stride again.
I had learned a lot more about my body before pregnancy number 2, and I chose a home birth attended by a midwife. She advocates the
Brewer Diet , and I was again terrified of blowing up like a whale during pregnancy, especially with all of those calories!!! I did gain a ton, and ended up weighing almost exactly the same on the day I gave birth to my second as when I gave birth to my second, even though I started out the pregnancy weighing over 20lbs less.
I finally began my career as a broadcast captioner for live television when my second child was six months old. I had not lost all of my baby weight, but I was definitely well below 200lbs. I think I was sitting right around 185 or so, and in a size 14 jeans. I went out of state for a month of on-the-job training, and I took my two babies who were 21 months apart in age, a jogging stroller, a breast pump, and my sister for babysitting. I knew after that month that I would be leaving my husband, I just didn't know how or when. But when he had access to FREE airline tickets to come see us, but didn't, that told me something. And when I got back, he didn't comment as much about what I learned in training and how awesome of an accomplishment it was for me to land this job with no prior experience in the field, but asked me how much I ran while I was there and how my diet was.... Yeah, pretty sure I was emotionally checked out at that point.
I kept up my jogging and I tried weight watchers again. For some reason, it wasn't as easy the second time around. I never did lose like I did after my first pregnancy. I couldn't seem to get below 180lbs. So I kind of gave up. I started smoking again. I started drinking more heavily when I finally left my now ex-husband. I stopped sleeping because I was working while my babies were sleeping, and taking care of them during daytime hours. I rarely jogged anymore.
Then I fell in love.
Brian made it clear from day one that he loved me for me and that he thought I was incredibly beautiful. He loved my body the way it was and hated how much I hated it. (he still does, by the way) I stopped being quite as critical, and I got lax with life in general. I didn't count WW points anymore. I didn't weigh and measure all of my food. I enjoyed dates with him, including dinner. I cooked. I started sleeping just a little more. I went through job stress, moving stress, kid stress, divorce stress, and kept a solid relationship with that rock of a man I have now. We got married. I was the heaviest I had ever been when I said, "I do" to him. I honestly don't think he saw any of those extra pounds in that moment. All I saw in his eyes was unconditional love for me. It was amazing.
Inside, I still hated my body. Then we had a baby! I was 215 when I got pregnant!!! Again, I was terrified. I barely gained any weight, but I did eat healthfully, and the same midwife attended and delivered my third healthy child at home, into the arms of my loving husband. I loved what my body had accomplished, but again... I hated the shape of my body. I still do.
I'm heavier now than when I got pregnant that third time. My "baby" will be 2 in June. I'm depressed and I hate getting dressed. I often find myself wearing pajamas all day long to avoid trying to find something in my closet that fits, doesn't restrict, and doesn't make me feel like a cow. I've counted points. I've counted calories. I've counted carbs. I've journaled everything. And you know what I've figured out?
It's probably not the food that's the enemy. It really can't be. I looked at my weight watchers journals from when I lost weight so easily after my first pregnancy. I ate total crap. I ate McDonald's. And brownies. And I drank beer. I didn't buy organic. I didn't include two veggies with every meal (things I try to do now). I wasn't eating "mindfully." I didn't think about the pro and con of every morsel that went into my mouth. It was just food. It was the same way when I was in the best shape of my life. I ate when I was hungry. I stopped when I was full. I made decent choices when I could, and didn't sweat it when I couldn't. But I moved. A LOT. I lifted heavy stuff. I laughed a lot. I did things I enjoyed. I appreciated life. I had fun.
*sigh*
But somehow my warped perception has made it all about the food. And now I have to make silent and secret excuses to eat. I wrestle with guilt at just about every meal or snack. I devour nutrition information. I worry about every bite I offer my children, wondering if I'm sealing their fate as fat adults just like me. Or I will go to the other end of the spectrum and eat so cleanly journal so meticulously and weigh and measure every crumb and make everything make such mathematical sense that the formula has to equal happiness in the end, right? Because a lower number on the scale has to equate to happiness. "One-derland" has to be the place to find that happiness again, right? I'm this heavy because of the chemical crapstorm I've poured into my body right? It's in the food, right? I eat too much. I eat too little. I don't eat the right stuff. The government is out to get me, right?
*another sigh*
When really, all along, I've never felt as pretty as the girl next to me. I've always had this seed of body hate growing inside of me. I've watered it with fitness magazines and transformation challenges. I fertilized it with infomercials and competitions and kitchen gadgets and diet pills. And now I'm reaping the harvest. It's 2:37 on a Sunday afternoon as I write this -- in my jammies.
I'm full of self-realization in my blogs. But no matter how much I write, I never seem to find the magic combination. I want to just wake up knowing how to listen to my body, eat what it needs, smell the roses, and run in some road races. I want to laugh with my kids and not ache when I get out of bed. I don't want it to be this hard. I am a mom, step mom, wife, a full time (with weekly overtime) employee, and more. I want to be an athlete, too. And I want to stop damaging my mental health and physical body with the rigors of ridiculous meticulous dieting. But I don't want to be fat anymore. Surely there's a middle ground somewhere? Right?
