I've always loved food. Everything about it. The smells, the tastes, how you feel after eating. That glow of content. It's like a drug. It was a drug. The best drug.
I abused food because I was abused. My father is a psychoawaypath who loand positiveved me intensely until one day he lost interest. And I filled the void with food, avoiding my feelings. One thing my dad hated more than the normal stuff a spoiled youngest-son white middle-class Vermonter male hates more than anything (besides gays, democrats, immigrants/minorities, being wrong) was fatties.
So I got fat.
Looking back on it now, it was probably very passive aggressive of me to take the anger I couldn't express towards him and turn it inward on myself. I made myself the walking, talking, eating antithesis of all he thought a woman should be.
And I did it fabulously.
Oh, Heather, you'll never have any friends if you're fat.
Bullshit.
You'll never have a boyfriend.
Bullshit.
No one will want to marry you.
Bullshit.
You'll never get pregnant.
Bullshit.
You'll have health problems, diabetes, and high blood pressure.
Bullshit.
Ever the contrarian, in spite of my weight (maybe even because of?), I went on to do all the things a woman does in her life. Because I had to develop a (gasp!) personality, I learned to use intelligence, humor, and sarcasm as both honey to draw people, and a whip to drive them away. I had (and have) many friends. I had no lack of suitors and sexual partners. I have married (twice!) and have given birth to 4 incredible and perfect children. And my weight never got in the way of my happiness.
What? You may ask yourself. Then why in the world did you use food as a drug? Why did you not use your abundance of natural, god-given talents to make yourself happy? I would answer you, then, that I'm a liar.
The queen of bullshit. Full to the top with delusion, avoidance, and an inability to accept personal weakness.
I would look at myself and I wouldn't see the fat. I'd see my gorgeous hair, my sparkling smile, my sexy geek glasses, my freckles, my small hands... anything but the fat.
The long and short of it? I disassociate. And when I do, I simply do not "see" what's wrong with me. I don't acknowledge it. It's the equivalent of a child hiding her head under a blanket and saying that they are invisible.
Do it long enough and you'll start to believe it.
See- from a mental health standpoint you might say, but look! She loves herself! Isn't that the point? Yeah. It is. But when you go to the doctor and get weighed and you realize that you've ballooned to a earth-shattering 468 lbs, you realize that maybe you should begin to examine yourself and your life and see what the hell happened!
What haven't I mentioned? Oh yeah. Remember at the beginning I was talking about my dad's neglect and abuse bringing out the worst in me? It also triggered childhood-onset bipolar disorder. It was diagnosed when I was 14, but I remember experiencing mania as young as age 4 or 5. I've also suffered with anxiety, probably that's the thing that even now I suffer from the most, besides depression. Oh yeah, and this stuff might be lived with if I took a cocktail of medications... side effects usually being weight gain which despite my nonchalance up until this point about my weight I still was unable to accept.
So. Unmedicated. What did I do?
Self medicate. With food. I ate because I was sad I was fat and crazy. And it was wonderfully horribly ineffective. Because, at the end of the day, I was still fat and still crazy. Only fatter.
So here I am, 468 lbs, and if I could render the fat down what would it be? Feelings.
Today I decided that enough is enough!!! I am going to lose 300 lbs of feelings. Because I'm sick of literally wearing my heart on my sleeve. And to prove it, I decided to start this blog.
I know that losing weight won't fix what's wrong with my mind. I know losing weight isn't a substitute for good mental health practices. I know that my problems won't vanish or decrease as I reduce my size. Just like moving away doesn't solve your problems. You can't run from yourself. Not really. So I think I have a leg up on people who believe otherwise.
Losing weight WILL, however, make me feel that I have some control, which will hopefully decrease my anxiety. It will help me sleep better. It will enable me to keep up with my gorgeous, sexy, fit husband. It will give me a good lifestyle and positive example to impart to my children. It will be good for me spiritually as well, because in my mind and in my heart I am svelte, not squat.
Tomorrow is a new day to make good choices and stop hiding from how I feel. I need to face myself and my feelings and find better ways to cope. Food fixes nothing. I need a cure, not a band-aid. And bit by bit, I'm going to literally work my fat ass off and go From Squat to Svelte. Because I DESERVE to have the body of my dreams. Just because god gave me a fixer upper, doesn't mean I need to suffer in silence. No. I am going to DIY this shack into a palace, because I DESERVE IT.
