September 9th, 2009

Realizations

I saw pic­tures of myself yes­ter­day. Pic­tures that my sister-in-law posted to Face­book so that all of my HS friends could see just how fat I had got­ten. I was dev­as­tated. I looked beastly and was so embar­rassed because I could not believe that I stopped respect­ing myself enough to get as obese as I am. I cried for what seemed like hours and then, like every fat per­son, blamed other peo­ple for my fat­ness. LOL. But some­thing inter­est­ing hap­pened. I real­ized that there are no more excuses. That there is noth­ing but change left.

It’s a shock­ing thing– see­ing your­self the way oth­ers see you. But at least I know the truth.

August 16th, 2009

The Spectrum of Change

I always find myself going back to this. I was an ath­lete– an exer­cise junkie. I loved the way I felt when I moved.

But I was very unhappy. I lived through some harsh events and lived with a ver­bally abu­sive mother and yet exer­cis­ing was my com­fort. I would have these small bat­tles with food that I always solved by mak­ing myself throw up because Bulimia was the in thing in my high school.

In col­lege, some things changed– I ate the same (maybe a lit­tle more) but I was no longer an ath­lete. Injuries pre­vented me from play­ing sports but even as I gained weight my on-and-off again strug­gle with Bulimia helped me keep off some of the excess weight. I was just “thick” as the boys would say.

The way I dressed changed too. I wore very sexy cloth­ing my first two years of col­lege partly because I was feel­ing like less of a tomboy (curves will do that to you) and partly because my boyfriend at the time was always so crit­i­cal of me and I wanted to keep him inter­ested. Unfor­tu­nately as I gained weight, he became an expert in mak­ing me feel like crap.

My per­son­al­ity changed too. I was no longer the social, out­go­ing per­son who was will­ing to walk all over cam­pus just to be out­side. I liked stay­ing in my room. I smoked more and even dab­bled in recre­ational drug use. My boyfriend cheated. We broke up, got back together, I cheated and lied and hid and found com­fort in the binge-purge cycle.

Even­tu­ally, my clothes changed more. Short mini skirts were replaced by jeans– the bag­gier the bet­ter. I cov­ered my body in lay­ers and with clothes that were big  enough to fit my male friends and I got lost in a “hip-hop” look.

I left col­lege after two years and moved back home with my mother. It was a mis­take. Despite the bud­ding romance that was hap­pen­ing between me and the man who would even­tu­ally become my hus­band, I was at war with my mother who reminded me that I was becom­ing a “fat heifer.”

I spent a lot of time eat­ing out with Drew. we loved din­ers and a typ­i­cal date for us was din­ner and a movie. Or din­ner and games. Or din­ner and dessert. You get the point, right?

I no longer ran to the bath­room to force my food up. I did not have too. I was diag­nosed with Men­tal Bulimia– I was so stressed about food and gain­ing weight,  I would force myself to throw up just from wor­ry­ing. Every meal end­ing the same way. I would get queasy and light-headed and I would dart to the bath­room where I would throw up. I chalked it up to eat­ing foods that I was not used to and he let it go for a while.

It was a prob­lem until my in-laws, a very accept­ing Ital­ian fam­ily taught me to love food because food was the uni­ver­sal sign of love and good times. Much like my own fam­ily, they loved food and every­thing cen­tered around it. The biggest dif­fer­ence was that they encour­aged me to have sec­onds and they did not make me feel bad about hav­ing thirds. They over­cooked and we all over­ate. But there was no guilt. I stopped vom­it­ing and learned to enjoy.

I was hap­pier than ever in my love life and with my new-found-family. I even fin­ished col­lege. But I was grow­ing more and more angry with my body. I tried to dress well, but as my body expanded my wardrobe dwin­dled. I became frumpy and less active and even less socia­ble. I never felt com­fort­able in my own skin so my wardrobe reflected my new found embar­rass­ment. Sweat­pants, sweat­shirts, and bandannas.

So where am I now? I love food now,  but rather than mak­ing myself vomit, I drown my shame in more food. I am socia­ble– on line, that is. I don’t like going out too much because its uncom­fort­able and I never have clothes that fit well. I always feel unkempt and I know peo­ple look at me like I am.

I am still strug­gling with the same issues I have my entire life but I am now aware of them. I know that my weight is not a reflec­tion of who I am.

August 9th, 2009

Step Out of the Woods, Out of the Dark, and Into the Light…

My name is Kristina and I am FAT.

I have been secretly recit­ing this to myself lately. Not as a way to keep me down but rather as a way to remind myself of a real­ity that I have spent years run­ning from. See, it was not until I saw myself next to my very weight-conscious friends from work that I started to really under­stand just what I have done to myself.

Most of my work friends weigh between 130–140 pounds, shop at the design­ers bou­tiques, and never have to worry if the lat­est com­pany Unity shirt will fit. They are not afraid to be seen eat­ing a cookie or brownie lest some­one think, “that’s exactly why your ass is a big as a house.” And yet, lis­ten­ing to them throw insults at them­selves– “I’m dis­gust­ing,” or “I’m gross”- was a con­stant source of sad­ness for me. After all, if they thought they were dis­gust­ing at 140 pounds, then they must look at me in fright and disgust.

I under­stand that even skinny peo­ple have body-image issues, but this blog is not about them. It is about me and what hear­ing them did to me. I  admit that at a cer­tain point I just tucked that rage away only to dig it out as I plowed through another order of wings– OK, wings, and que­sodilla, and two slices of pizza– from the local pizza joint. And as the weight steam­rolled me, I would avoid look­ing in mir­rors, or shop­ping, or eat­ing in pub­lic. I would hide.

The truth is hard to hide how­ever. It always man­ages to seep into the light and no mat­ter what we do to cast a shadow over it, even­tu­ally it’s rays are so strong that there is noth­ing left to do but accept it– arms wide open.

For me this hap­pened in stages. It began with my clothes not fit­ting and con­tin­ued. Hav­ing to retire my hooker boots and heels because they no longer sup­ported my weight. See peo­ple who had not seen me in a long time try des­per­ately not to look at me. Not fit­ting in booths at restau­rants. Hav­ing my mother tell me that I was too fat to be preg­nant. The ver­bally abu­sive 14 year-old who called me a “Fat Bitch” on a daily basis dur­ing my first year of teach­ing. My mother telling me that my fat would suf­fo­cate my unborn child. Being afraid to have sex with the lights on. Only hav­ing sex in the same position…

The list of cues is endless.

But there is one that made it all clearer: My daugh­ter. She wanted so des­per­ately to have Mommy chase her and after only like two runs, I sat on the sofa, exhausted and in tears. I want to run with her. I want to take her to amuse­ment parks and fit on the rides. I want to be healthy. I don’t want her to be ashamed of me or worry that Mommy may not live.

And I want, more than any­thing for her to know the real me. Not the me who is always hid­ing and run­ning from the truth:

My name is Kristina and I am Fat!

photo credit: h.koppdelaney