I started this blog because I felt I had a story to tell, I mean, we all do- don't we?! And I've been telling stories, sure. But this is
THE story. The one I've been struggling to articulate. So you can consider this my SFD (shitty first draft, ala Brené Brown).
My first memory of a "weight related incident" was probably when I was 6 years old. I can remember being in my grandparents living room watching TV. My grandfather sat in his wheelchair, watching too. I believe my uncle and older brother were also in the room. A commercial came on for whatever weight-loss method was popular in 1986 (Weight Watchers, Slim-o-matic, Drink My Shake- whatevs) and my grandfather pointed at the TV and said "Hey maybe we should get that for Laurie". His remark was met by laughter from the other men in the room, maybe I even laughed too.
I can't remember what my reaction was. I mean the real one. The one on the inside. I do remember leaving the room and going out to the sun porch to be alone. Did I know then? Is that when this story started? When the word "fat" became a character trait.
I'm not sure- but it was probably the beginning of a very long story...
Fast forward to adolescence. Weight was my "thing". I didn't have pimples or frizzy hair. I had weight. So that was the issue du jour. Another one of those piercing memories comes from 6th grade. I was at a friends birthday party and was called "bubble butt" during a game of volleyball. The worst part is, it came from another friend I was very close too.
That reaction I remember- I was broken. As broken as a 12 year old can be. I internalized that pain and upset and once again "fat" became my most prominent character trait. Except now, even my friends thought so...
Fast forward through life. I gained weight and lost it. I joined Weight Watchers and counted points. The Special K Diet and 3 Day Hot Dog Diet. I went to college and drank on the pounds (also ice cream delivery to your dorm and many many late nights of pizza) then I would go home for the summer and lose them again. A never ending battle with the scale and ever complicated relationship with food.
That is, until May of 2014, right after the birth of my second child. I came home from the hospital, tipping the scales at 200lbs. It was May (almost summer- shorts, bathing suit?!? ) and I felt like crap. So I contacted a friend from high school who ran her own fitness and nutrition company. She put me on a clean eating meal plan and it was magic. The magic I'd been waiting for all my life. I learned to meal prep, I learned to cook, I bought a food scale and learned about portion sizes. I brought egg whites and spinach to the beach and brought my own food to parties in Tupperware.
This obsessive control over my food intake was my medicine to deal with raging postpartum depression and difficulties adjusting to life with two kids. I couldn't control my life, or the way my baby didn't sleep or my toddler's neediness- but I could eat chicken, spinach and brown rice all day and be SKINNY!
And that's what happened. I got skinnier and skinnier. I reveled in the comments and compliments. The admiration of other moms trying to loose the baby weight. Finally, Finally- the "fat" was no longer a character trait.
August 2013. At my skinniest, but always 5 pounds away from my goal
But no matter how skinny I got, it was never enough. All I wanted was 5 more pounds or 1 more size down.
When the scale stopped moving, I tried a new approach. I hired coaches from Instagram to figure out my macros so I could do IIFYM. I mean, that's what worked for the #fitspo girls I obsessively followed on social media. So if it worked for them, it could work for me!?
I would spend the next few months analyzing (protein, carbs, fats) every piece of food that entered my mouth or even my eye sight.
Well, if I eat this muffin, then I can have egg whites and mustard for dinner.
Literally, all day. Obsessive figuring and re-figuring and calculating. And for a girl who ain't so good at math, that blows!
But its what needed to be done to maintain my size 6's.
And that's how life went until I got
the phone call.
The phone call came on a Wednesday morning about 5am. Ironically, when
the phone call came- I didn't hear it because I was in the middle of a workout.
The message left by my mom went something like this "
Laurie, you need to get someone else to watch the kids today. I'm on my way to the hospital with Dad. Call me".
By the time I had called her back, they had pronounced my Dad dead in the ER. Just like that, on a Wednesday morning. Dead. 66 years old.
I remember much everything about those next few hours and days like you do with most traumatic events.
I remember rushing to my parents' house with my protein shake for breakfast.
I remember promising myself I wasn't going to eat my grief away and get fat again.
I remember sitting in the house, looking at a plate of food brought over by a family friend wondering how would I track my macros for this and scolding a friend who brought over chocolates.
At the time, none of this seemed odd. It was just the way I was used to living. I didn't even tell my "macro coach" at the time my father died because I was afraid he'd change my program and impact my progress.
In the months following my father's death, we learned more about his life than I could have ever anticipated. These new facts, brought to light by paperwork and lawyers and insurance policies, changed our reality.
Here I was, grieving, hurting and facing a difficult view of a man I thought I knew. I didn't know how to deal with it. I had no coping skills for this. So I retreated to the one thing that brought me comfort- food.
During the day, when people were watching, I ate my clean, measured way. But at night or when I was alone, I consoled myself with cookies. I ate them until my mouth was raw and my belly hurt. After all, its easier to be mad at yourself for eating cookies than it is to be mad at your dead father. The pounds started creeping back on. But tomorrow, I'd stop. Tomorrow I'd go back to tracking macros and being skinny. But tomorrow was the same thing...
And then, I read a book. A fiction book by Jennifer Weiner called All Fall Down. It was the story of a suburban mom who numbed the mundane and challenging parts of her life with prescription pills and the lengths she would go to in order to hide this behavior from her husband and family.
As I was reading, I realized there was no difference between me and her. My pills were cookies. But aside from that, it was the same story.
I had no coping skills to deal with the immense grief, so I ate it out.
I'm not even so sure I knew I was grieving at the time that's how numb I'd become to feeling my feelings. Controlling my food wasn't working for me this time because life had just shown me how OUT of control I really was in the grand scheme of things.
It had been 4 months since my father died and all I'd been doing was stalling my healing. I wasn't in denial of his death, I was in denial of my grief and my pain.
That "aha" moment came about a year ago. And in this past year, I've been on quite a journey.
It's been a journey of re-discovering myself and renaming my character traits.
Along the way I've had amazing conversation with my best friends. Women I've known for decades who've opened up about their own struggles with weight, and comparison, and self-image.
I've met a women, 10 years my junior, who shares my struggles. My advice and conversations with her are things I wish I could have told myself 10 years ago.
Along the way I've read amazing books like
Women, Food and God by Geneen Roth, and
It Was Me All Along by Andi Mitchell. Gifts from the universe to help my healing and let me know I'm not alone. Gifts from my Dad.
I've meditated, I've prayed, I've cried, I've grieved. I've become more positive. More accepting and more forgiving. I've counted my blessing daily. I've come to accept that I know my father better in his death than I did in his life. I've stopped obsessing over food and the size of my pants (most days). I've stopped wishing and cleansing and detoxing my way back to that SKINNY version of me.
My journey isn't over. This is life and its a little like an onion. You just keep peeling away at those layers. And you cry because onions do that to you. The closer I get to the core, the more it feels like I'm living life as me- with my whole heart open to the truth and the hurt and the feelings.
The way my Dad would have liked to live too...
August 2015
