Epiphany

Smith asked me a really simple question during our sit-down meeting on Friday night. After we'd gone over the outline of his training plans, my goals, and such, he said, "You already know all this stuff. So, what's keeping you from doing it?"

That's the first time anyone's ever asked me that question. Seriously -- no one's ever asked me why before. Why do I do this to myself? Why do I let myself stay obese when I know exactly how to get rid of the weight? I told Smith I didn't know, squirming in my chair. But when I crawled into bed on Friday night, the answer came to me. It hit me in the chest like a fastball, knocked the wind out of me.

Because I feel like I deserve to be punished.

Typing that sentence brings tears to my eyes. Most of the people who know me these days can't imagine why in the world I'd ever think something like that. But that's it. That's the reason.

The truth is, I've done some really god-awful things in my life, things I'm too ashamed of to ever write about here (at least at this point, anyway). I've hurt a lot of people and done a lot of damage. And I've never forgiven myself. Instead, I've spent years doing whatever I can to keep myself from being truly happy, because how could somebody as awful as me ever deserve happiness?

I don't know why this has never occurred to me before. It makes perfect sense, though. Every time I've ever given up on something I was good at, or something that made me happy, deep down I felt like I had to because I didn't deserve it. Giving up on the things I love, keeping myself fat and miserable, that's my punishment. That's my penance for doing the wrongs I've done.

I think it's going to take me a while to get through this part. I've been crying off and on since Friday night, barely made it through a wedding and time with friends last night. I don't know where or how to start the process of forgiving myself. I just know I have to.

NOTE: Please don't interpret this as a plea for positive comments, affirmations, or "OH, but you're so AWESOME!" messages. I'm not fishing for love this morning, honest.

Then and Now

The Hubs & Me, December 2004

That's me at my thinnest - probably around 175 pounds. Not my ideal weight, but I was in a size 12 and very happy to be there. See, only one chin! And look at those COLLARBONES! 

My wedding was only four months away, and the pressure of having to fit into my (very expensive) dress was keeping me and my food in check. I was doing Weight Watchers that year, and so was the Hubs (that's his "skinny" picture, too). We look hot, don't we? Heh.

Fast forward about five and a half years, and here I am:

The Fat Roll and Me, July 2009

Wow. Just...wow.

My friend Peggy took this picture at a cookout over 4th of July weekend. When I saw it, I couldn't believe how bad I looked. That big ol' roll...I never had that before. Did I? DID I?! O DEAR GOD HOW LONG HAS THAT BEEN THERE?! And you can't tell where my head ends and my neck begins. Nice food stain on the fat roll, too. *sigh*

This is the picture that I needed to see. It was a big, fat (literally) kick in the ass. I don't want to look like this anymore. I don't want to hide from the camera. So whenever I want to give up, I'm going to look at this post. Just a reminder of what is, what was, and what WILL be.

The Origin of the Species

Mom (Maybe the Original FvF?) and Me, 2006

My mom loves food, probably as much as I do. But she has one advantage: her other love is exercise. SERIOUS exercise. She's been a runner since the 70s, got into triathlons, weight lifting, the works. At almost 60 years old, she's in the kind of shape people wish they were in at 30.

She wasn't always a super-athlete. Go back to pictures from her pre-running days, and you'll find a voluptuous (and unbelievably tan!) woman, not fat, but certainly not lean. She told me herself that she's always loved to eat, but she figured out a long time ago that in order to eat a lot, she'd have to exercise a lot. That light bulb went on probably around 1979 and hasn't flickered once in 30 years. She shared that lesson with me many times, even working out with me as a teenager and encouraging me to exercise throughout my adult life.

My mom taught me a lot that shaped my relationship with food. She taught me how to cook, but more importantly, she taught me how to appreciate good food. Not snobby food (although I did have a few Molly Ringwald/Breakfast Club moments as I unpacked my lunch at school), but GOOD food. No canned vegetables, no Hamburger Helper, no convenience food whatsoever. Spaghetti O's? Heck no. Try homemade pasta with chunky sauce that takes a full day to cook.

Not all of her lessons were healthy ones, unfortunately. Without realizing what she was doing, Mom was so strict about junk food that it almost became an obsession for me. If my sister and I asked for soda, we got Fresca. We asked for "good" cereal, and we got Honey Nut Cheerios. We had to ask permission before getting food from the pantry or the fridge. If you told my mom, "I'm hungry!" you'd hear, "Have a glass of water."

She didn't know then what we know now -- that when you deprive kids of a certain type of food (like junk food) they'll overindulge when they finally have access to it. Whereas if you give them a free choice, they tend to sample moderately from the different groups.

I don't think she had anything but the best intentions for my sister and me; she never told me I was fat, never made fun of my weight, never picked on my eating habits. She was always one to make gentle suggestions, and I never felt like she was judging me when I didn't follow them.

Maybe she was just afraid that we would end up struggling with our weight like she felt she had as a teenager? Maybe she was just trying to save us some pain later in life? Who knows. I just know that I don't blame her for my obesity. I don't buy into the whole "blame your parents for everything that's wrong with you" mentality (especially now that I'm a parent myself, heh). I think parents do the best they can with what they have, making the most of whatever parenting skills they did (or didn't) learn from their own parents. How they raise you does have an impact on your life, obviously, but I don't like the word "blame." You learn from their example, either how to cope with life or how not to cope. But I digress...

All I'm doing here is trying to figure out when and why this whole weight dilemma began, and hopefully that knowledge will help me end it once and for all. I'm waiting patiently for my own light bulb moment, making sure that the socket is wired up and ready to go.

What's In A Name?

I had a list of blog names going in a little notebook next to my bed: mostly self-deprecating, a few downright hateful, some just ridiculously lame. Finally, I settled on Foodie versus Fattie. Why? Because part of my problem with weight is my totally unhealthy relationship with food. I don't just like to eat. I love to eat. But here's the catch -- I'm a food snob. So when I binge, it's not Fritos and Big Macs that I'm stuffing down my gullet. It's organic this, field-raised that, hand-crafted-by-hippies-in-Vermont stuff that packs the caloric equivalent of six hours at the Old Country Buffet.

My inner Foodie understands that these amazing things are supposed to be enjoyed in small portions, the two- or three-bite dishes you see on Top Chef. Beautiful food. Passionate food. Artfully prepared food. You know, FOODIE food.

Fattie, on the other hand, has no understanding of "less is more." MORE is more, and more is better, right? If an ounce of fresh buffalo mozzarella, sandwiched between home-grown basil and a slice of organic heirloom tomato, is good, then a whole pound of mozzarella is fucking Shangri-La.

So the battle rages on...Foodie spies high-end goods at the store and loads up the cart, imagining fantastic meals for everyone. Fattie gets to the car, waits 'til no one's looking, and scarfs down half a baguette before leaving the parking lot. It all sounds very schizophrenic, and in some ways I guess it is. But what they both have in common is that they're emotionally attached to food. Foodie is getting high on flavor, and Fattie is self-medicating (a habit that started back in the period I like to call Eating My Way Through My Parents' Divorce).

I just want to eat in peace. I'll never be one of those people who can see food purely as fuel -- I think that's kind of a sad way to live (unless you're a pro athlete or something, and you HAVE to live that way). But I'd like to be able to eat a meal without ten steamer trunks of emotional baggage tied to my fork.