The Weight(y) Issue(s)

Recently, I met a woman with a very body positive vibe.  It was early June, I had orchestrated a neighborhood scavenger hunt, and she showed up in workout wear with no "over" clothes like I would have worn.  She was a pear shaped woman, likely 15 years younger than I and was absolutely loving being in her skin.

I wish I could say the same. 

Sure, I have my positive moments.  Usually it's when I look in the mirror after taking a shower and I have hair and makeup on.  There are other moments, too, when I actually feel good about how I look.  But this woman, there was no ambiguity about her self image.

Because of my aforementioned battle with sugar, my eating to fill a hole, and struggling with understanding that I don't have to keep up with anyone, I have issues.  When I was in high school, I don't recall every feeling "fat" or even larger than I was supposed to. I do remember eating WAY too much junk food.  Some of it directly tied to our living with a stranger.  In college I put on the "freshman fifteen" like most of my female classmates.  I struggled with it, trying to exercise it off but realistically speaking, I could not stick with an exercise regime to save my life. 

The only summer of my college career that I went back home, my mother decided it was time for me to lose weight.  We were living in Moulton and there was actually a Weight Watchers group somewhere nearby.  So I counted everything and felt deprived:  deprived of sugar, and carbohydrates, and attention that I actually wanted.  My Mom thought she would be my coach, watching everything I did and ate, encouraging me to walk on dusty roads in the heat of summer.  Once or twice she went with me and then she started to feel bad.  I was supposed to "run home" and tell my dad who would come pick her up.  This was likely July, middle of the day, on gravel roads.  I don't run.  I have never been a runner but Mom made out like she would die soon if I didn't so I tried, in the sun, on a gravel road that was an  uphill trek to get home.  I think I ran, then walked, then ran some more.  Mom didn't die that summer but I thought I might. 

Every once in a while, she would pat the back of my legs ----- the ones my brothers called "thunder thighs" ----- and say, "you don't need to eat that."  By the end of summer I was down to an acceptable weight according to Weight Watchers.  When I was driven back to college and I went grocery shopping.  I distinctly remember being near the Albertson's dairy department when we were walking.  Mom stopped and I went ahead.  "What are you doing?" I asked. "I am just looking at how beautiful you are now that you have lost weight."  Sigh.

Obviously I didn't stick with it.  Who was I doing this for anyway?  This isn't the kind of attention I wanted or needed.  It's pretty hilarious that I look back on my college pictures and say, "Wow, look how skinny I was!"  After the summer after my junior year, one of my residents (I was an RA) came to me to confess that she had an eating disorder.  It was why she was always wearing sweaters.  That blew me away; her family didn't pay attention to her.  

After I graduated my mom informed me that my grandfather was giving me liposuction surgery. 

What?  

Rick and Carolyn had been given washer and dryer after they were married from my Grandpa.  Matt was given a trip to Europe.  What did I get?  Liposuction that I didn't even know I needed.  Mom was in control of Grandpa's money and she wanted everything to be fair.  In my mind did washer + dryer = trip to Europe = Liposuction and 6 weeks of recovery seem fair? It still doesn't.  LIPOSUCTION HAD NEVER EVEN CROSSED MY MIND and now Mom had me thinking Grandpa thought I was too fat.  

Let me be crystal clear about a few things.  My mother's mother was over 5'10" tall and not a small woman at all.  My father was a large man.  Even in his early days when he was courting my mom, he was not a scrawny guy.  His own mother was a portly woman and his father died of a heart attack.  My sons are both above average at 6'1"; they got that from me and my side of the genetics.  One of the two is ectomorph and the other is an endomorph (I think) and honestly, I don't care so long as they are happy, healthy, and morally upright.  

I still eat too much and too fast but now I know why.  I can usually stop myself or at least slow down.  Fullness is a rarity for me.  It is truly better if I do intermittent fasting and wait to start eating around noon.  Nowadays, I feel like open the mouth, open the flood gates.  If I kept a food log, it might help but honestly I don't want to.  I still remember writing everything down for WW. Enough.

No, may I have a serving of unconditional attention please?  Let's serve it with a side of forgiveness.

Am I Allowed to Be Sad?

 I am writing these blog entries to work through things that I feel I might have buried for years.  I think these incremental burials played havoc on my body and rather than acknowledging that what I was feeling was a sort of stress, I was taken to doctors.  My migraine headaches started when I my period did.  My back trouble didn't bother me until much later. I developed Irritable Bowel Syndrome when I was in high school.  My poor eating habits took root in my body after my parents married.  My memory is very clear on three things:  my dad (Bud) had 3 large boxes of fortune cookies that he had for work.  All the fortunes were the same: "Schlage will bring you good lock." They were kept in the pantry --- perhaps my first foray in "closet eating".  I also remember coming home and making buttery pasta.  I don't recall there being any healthy snacks in the house that interested me.  I am thinking maybe some gross granola bars, like nature valley.  I do remember enjoying Yoplait yogurt but it was the pasta that I craved.  Also, I would save up my money and ride my bicycle to Mr. M food store.  It was a convenience store in our neighborhood in The Meadows.  I would grab my babysitting money and head that way and buy candy, all that I could.  I would eat quite a bit before getting home and hide the rest.  All three were absolutely awful choices for what to eat but I was living in a home with 2 parents working, not paying an incredible amount of attention to me, and not being given a whole lot of options.  Mom at this point was addicted to Coca-Cola; it was her morning coffee.  I come to realize much later into my adult life, that I rarely feel satisfied when I eat.  With brothers and later sons, I thought it was my job to keep up.  At one point in time a friend of mine gave me a sidelong glance and a comment that still stays with me.  She had noted that I had a hard time stopping eating something that I thought tasted good.  It was years later that I realized food (especially sugar) was to me what moving was to Mom.  I was trying to fill a vacuous hole and honestly, it is still a problem.  The primary difference is now is that I am aware.  My sugar addiction over all these years has lead to inflammation and issues from that----migraines, back pain, urinary tract infections, etc.  This is why I am doing the work.  But am I allowed to be sad and angry?  I, truthfully, don't want to do this work if the only thing I get out of it is anger or sadness.  

Interestingly, since starting this writing journey a few days ago, I have been sad. It is a very strong and sudden pull.  I will be okay, like a mellow 3 and dip down to a 1 in a matter of seconds.  It is really strange how quickly it will come.  So I think about the things I am writing and what is making me sad and acknowledge it.  I think I am allowed to be sad, I just don't want it to overtake me.  I think this is telling me I need to keep writing to write my way through my feelings.  

I had remembered back in the early 2000s I was struggling with depression and my Mom told me that I should go to a counselor.  I remember telling her, "Are you sure you want me to do that?  Because if I do, this is all your fault."  She didn't say anything in return.  So for now, at least, I am okay with being sad.