dakiniNC
My story is of: growing up in a fleshy suit of armor; binding anxiety with food; parental advice such as, " Just don't eat. There are no fat people in concentration camps"; multiple structured diets ( I can count 375 pounds lost and gained back); Self consciousness; medical poblems increasing with age: I step up and begin my journey. The scale boasting accuracy up to 700 lbs. The needle considers 439 but holds a bit higher. Only once before has my weight crept so dense. Three weeks of diet until celebration- 397 on a device registering only to 400.
Here's something I wrote a few years ago regarding my journey:
I toss off the phrase “only to 400” as if it is not a colossal amount. I am a sofa, a dresser, a quarter of the weight limit of many elevators. I am massive, take up space, crowd the aisles. I am an elephant, whale, cow, fatty. monster. freak. I am all the names I am called. I draw attention. I draw crowds. I have always been too much. My weight echoes the manic child inside. Too much of everything but never enough.
I do not run the dishwasher unless every space is occupied, unless nothing more will fit. When pumping gas, I top it off despite recommendations, the potential for spillage. Satisfaction equals full. Today I fear the wanting of it, laboring over a well-balanced meal (mild interest at the taste), disappointment in the end--my belly prepared yet not full.
This first week I’m a slave to it. I’ve been here before like going back to an abusive spouse or childhood memory. I move from diet drink mixes to water to counting the minutes until my next snack. I am tricking my stomach to feel full. I cannot cope with the idea of nothing. I thrive on the something forthcoming. I beg the clock to move.
I obsess if the 20g of carbs in my fat free yogurt will put me over the edge and keep me obese-- unhealthy-- monstrous. I try to remember this is the alternative to candy bars, trail mix, coca-cola, or fasting until a two plate buffet lunch
I remember as a child squeezing myself into a closet and eating oranges scavenged from the fridge, throwing back sweet-n-low packets and hiding the pink papers in pillowcases, the moments not of hide-n-go seek, or parties with friends-but the ones in silence, with chewing and flavor and love.
As a teen I read magazines and scanned tv for someone like me, but the closest match eating disorder didn’t feel a fit. The symptoms in pamphlets seemed foreign--shoveling in mounds of food when depressed or angry. A puzzle to my young self: I ate always. Food was a constant like air.
I never coupled myself with the alcoholic who drank at dawn, not considering I lived as a well-oiled fat wheel, without reason to speak of it. I was seduced by movies of bulimics their boney paleness the way sweaters hung loosely collar bones announced their presence. I spent hours hunched over the toilet swabbing deep with a toothbrush interrupted by gagging the pain of my insides clinging tight to this love. Red eyes and swollen throat. I would not let it go. My body fighting as hard to keep food down as some bodies fight to expel.
When I am undersexed, bored with my job, disenchanted with self—there is the crisp cold soda, the warm noodles with butter spinach soufflé and cheese (mountains of cheese) in this world to comfort me, fill me, rock me into comfort, the baby in me suckling. I take responsibility for loving myself the wrong way.
