fat girl gone...

My local Lane Bryant is going out of business. Coincidence? I don't think so. I was their best customer until six months ago. Now I can just walk into any old store and find something that fits...it's as easy as it is dangerous.  

I am within two pounds of my goal weight, but if you ask me, I'd say I'm done. I am at a weight I can live with in more ways than one. I can still eat the things I love, just in moderation. I have found that sweet spot that I can come back to after eating with reckless abandon over vacation...as long as I get back on the wagon when I get home, I'm good.

This new body has made me realize that unless I am dead or dying, I'll never be a size six, and I'm 100% okay with that. I watch those waif little girls gallop through the gym and I still find myself wondering what it must feel like to be so small. I will never know...and I am unwilling to torture and starve myself for a goal that is truly unattainable for me. The truth is, I will never be able to relate to those girls on that level. To them, I will always be a fat girl. Let's face it: after they pop out a couple of kids, they will probably find themselves at my current weight and run to the nearest Weight Watchers in sheer horror. It is a little unnerving when I actually consider the fact that my goal weight is a starting point for some women's weight loss journeys. 

I recently took a family vacation to Michigan and tried my best to step out of my comfort zone. Though I work out at the gym regularly, I had yet to challenge myself with outdoor activities (outside of a few minor hikes and a couple of attempts at snowshoeing). I hiked Sleeping Bear Dunes http://www.nps.gov/slbe/planyourvisit/index.htm and kayaked on the Crystal River http://www.crystalriveroutfitters.com/kayak-canoe-trips/....I even allowed a few full body shots and didn't stand behind the group. I found myself staring at my photos in disbelief...I still can't identify with the girl in the pictures. My brain has yet to catch up with my body size. I kept asking my husband if I really look like the photos. I just can't wrap my brain around it.

It never ceases to amaze me that no matter how many pounds I lose, my inner fat girl is always lurking in the background...trying to sneak in the back row of the group shot, sticking out her neck in the photo to avoid the dreaded double chin and tugging at her shirt to cover her fat stomach. She still feels the pang of anxiety at the thought of crossing a crowded room. 

I could settle into old behaviors like a comfortable pair of shoes.  I now find myself having to stop from making self-deprecating jokes about my weight to other women. In the past, it was how I related to them and such a natural part of my personality. I identified with overweight women and felt such a connection to them.  That's not to say that I no longer feel a kinship with them, because I do...but unless I walk around with a tattoo across my forehead that says I've lost 98 pounds, they probably don't realize that we share similar demons.

So here I sit, contemplating the next phase of this journey and hoping I can do it justice. I'm still taking it one day at a time and working towards my fitness and personal goals for the future.

Sleeping Bear Dunes

Kayaking on the Crystal River

Shore of Lake Michigan

Penninsula State Park, Door County

one day at at time....

You know that guy we all love to hate...the one that tells his fat wife that she's not the woman he married now that she's gained a few pounds? Yeah, that's my husband...only in reverse. I was roughly 55 pounds heavier when I met Steve. He loved a buxom broad...the big boobs and all of the lovely lady lumps that came with the fluff. He always made me feel desired and beautiful, no matter what the scale or my own insecurities told me. My poor husband...this new thinner body I have worked so hard for is nothing that he is inherently attracted to. He loves me, but I can tell the attraction is not the same.  I used to love when he appreciated big girls as they walked by. Hell, I used to point them out to him! Now...not so much. My new body doesn't compare...and I don't want to go back to my old body.

I would feel much worse for him if I had gone into this weight loss thing for aesthetics, but my sole purpose was to feel better. The effort it took just to stand up and saunter across the room was physically and mentally exhausting.  Forget getting up off of the floor...it was nearly impossible.  I think Steve tolerates my new figure because he knows that I feel better. That's not to say I'm not rattling on about every little change that is happening to me. No doubt he tires of the Weight Watcher point counting and workout discussions. I'm certain my attitude has changed as well. I am happier most days, but I have my moments...those days when my (Weight Watchers) points are dwindling and all I want to do is eat. Resisting the urge to put a fork in my mouth can be agonizing at times....but in the end it is worth it. That is, until I get tired of doing this and start getting fat again. Isn't that what some of you are thinking? I would be lying if I said the thought hasn't crossed my mind. I am far from naive when it comes to the weight loss game. I have lost and gained hundreds of pounds in my life. It is not the losing that intimidates me...it is the maintenance. It is falling off the wagon and finding the courage to get back on that scares me the most.

My first slip since beginning this journey in May of last year occurred Easter weekend. I counted my Weight Watcher points until Easter Sunday, then gave up and dipped into my Easter candy without counting. That said, I didn't eat with reckless abandon...but I stopped counting points. By Monday, I was up 2.2 pounds. I got right back on the wagon following my Monday weigh in, and was able to lose exactly 2.2 pounds that week....I am currently down a grand total of 95.4 pounds. I have  about 5 - 10 more pounds until I reach my goal weight. These last few pounds are killing me...but mostly because I am afraid of what happens next. Where will I focus my attention when there is no more weight to lose?

I work out religiously.  There are some mornings that the bed is calling for me to climb back in when the alarm goes off at 4:25 AM, but I still get up and go. Blowing off one morning is not an option...sick or not, I HAVE to go. It is a slippery slope...the minute I skip one work out, it will make future workouts more easy to blow off...so I just have to do it. I never regret it when am walking out of the gym at 6:15 AM..it is probably one of my favorite parts of the he day.

My body has become a stranger to me. I don't know this place covered with hills and valleys I've never seen. Bones...nobody told me about the bones. A couple of months ago, I plopped down in my car and thought I was sitting on something. I repositioned, and still I felt it. I slipped my hand beneath me figuring the kids had left a hot wheel on my seat, but there was nothing. That's when it hit me...my tail bone. I didn't even know it was possible to feel it when I sat down. Protruding hip bones, ribs and my bumpy sternum. I just never knew what it felt like to have a normal body, sans the fluff.

As far as I have come, my eyes always go to the parts of my body that have been damaged by carrying all of the excess weight over the years. This temple is a train wreck. There is no getting away from it. No matter how many times people tell me to embrace it because it tells how far I've come, I hate it. I want it gone. I suppose it is the price I must pay for spending most of my life eating whatever, whenever. So for today, I appreciate the little things.  As I type this I am sitting on a airplane bound for Tampa. The first time in my entire life I have actually had to TIGHTEN the seatbelt. I used to have to ask for extensions...it brings tears to my eyes. When my father was alive and Steve and I were dating, my dad would always make Steve promise to get me a seatbelt extension when we'd fly. I was always too embarrassed to ask...so Steve, as my devoted other half, always did it for me. I am still a lucky girl, just with a smaller ass that makes getting around much easier. Some days are harder than others, but I try to remember where I was this time last year and take things one day at a time.

Me and my beautiful cousin Becky. May, 2014

My mom, me and my other beautiful cousin, Lyndsey. May, 2014

Me and my boys, Graham and Simon. May, 2014

Me and Steve. May, 2014

the new girl...

I was standing in the middle of my local Lane Bryant a couple of weeks ago searching for new activewear. I had been trying very hard to rein in my spending as it relates to my clothing budget, but losing eighty pounds doesn't give one much choice. I was standing there, looking around, when I realized that for the first time in 27 years I no longer belonged there. It was a hell of a revelation after having little to no choice in the matter for most of my adult life. I was more intimidated than excited, to be honest. Outside of Gap and Target, I had no idea where to begin my new venture into the world of average-sized women's fashion. Oh well; just one of adjustments I have had to make in my life lately.

A funny thing happens when you try to adapt a healthier lifestyle...if you work hard enough at it, you lose weight...but adapting to the physical changes are cake compared to the mental and emotional changes. I am a very different girl than the one that was sitting here one year ago. That girl was a people pleaser...she desperately wanted you to like her, and would put up with almost anything to keep you. Not this girl. It sounds terrible, but I just can't muster up the energy to put up with the crap that I used to. There has been a definite shift in perspective...and it has carried over to all aspects of my life.

A few years ago, my little family moved to the Midwest and I was forced to establish myself in a new town...and with this came new friendships. The community I moved to was very close knit and family oriented. Many of the people I met in this area grew up here, and as a result they already had busy social calendars. Making friends was not easy. I bounced around and settled into a nice handful of girlfriends. I was in desperate need of female friends at that time, and some of my choices were questionable at best. I don't want to blame my poor judgement on my weight alone, but I was a new stay at home mom, and my self confidence was waning.

I had a very tumultuous relationship with one of these girls in particular that lasted entirely too long. She worked diligently to chip away at my self esteem as it related to my looks, my weight, and my family. She once acknowledged something that she felt I was already aware that I was good at by telling me she would never compliment me on it because she didn't want to "give me" that. I couldn't believe what I was hearing...the thought of holding back support or admiration of one of my friends because I feel they are already confident in that area was such a foreign and twisted concept to me. I couldn't imagine being hesitant to build up one of my friends...isn't that what makes a good friend? I endured a fair amount of pain and anguish with that particular friendship for many years. I remember leaving the house, excited to hang out with this girl, only to come home insecure and deflated. She always had her weight over me...in more ways than one. This "friend" made me aware on many occasions that my size made me less desirable in men's eyes...and as much as I tried to explain that it might have as much to do with my confidence, I believed the things she said to me. They made me feel terrible, and messed with my head....and she liked it that way.

Over the past nine years, I've been lucky enough to form some good, solid friendships. I walked away from the ones that I didn't feel were healthy for me. The friends I have now have supported me through some of the most dynamic years of my life. They have listened to me yammer on about every minute detail of this weight loss journey and they haven't left my side. They have held me up on tough days, and celebrated with me on the awesome ones. I am blessed beyond measure...that much I know.

It is sad, but as much as I find myself pointing the finger at how poorly others treated me when I was plus sized, it has become glaringly obvious to me that by not expecting more of others, I wasn't treating myself any better than they were.  The irony is definitely not lost on me. I wish I could go back and give my fat self a pep-talk, but in the end, the journey is what brought me to this point, and I wouldn't trade this for anything...

he loves me...

When I was around twelve, my youngest aunt got married. I recall the discourse within the family about her having to lose weight prior to the wedding...at her fiancé's insistence. He refused to marry her until she was thin enough. The women of the family were aghast at this...but as a preteen, it was a defining moment in my life. Prior to that, I believed that a knight in shining armor would sweep me off of my feet and take my hand in marriage once the time was right. I felt worthy of love, regardless of my size. I never considered having to look a certain way in order to find a man who would want to make me his wife. The idea that my weight stood in the way of my happily-ever-after was a bitter pill to swallow.

At that point in my life I assumed that I would either spend my life alone, settle for a man that I wasn't in love with, or with a man who felt my worth was based on my dress size. I expected to be demeaned and insulted by my husband if I was too fat. Never in a million years did I expect to find a man that loved every part of me. At best, I thought I might find someone who loved my personality enough to overlook my rubenesque figure.

I found him in a twenty something chatroom. I was a college graduate, and he was a sophomore at Georgia Tech. A short little Italian from northern Virginia, eight years my junior. We had nothing going for ourselves as a couple, but I met him and it was over for me. I had never known a love like that. He loved me in a way that every girl dreams of. He didn't love me in spite of my weight...as a matter of fact, he loved my outside as much as my inside. He was everything I ever wanted and more...I felt like the luckiest girl in the world...and I didn't think that I deserved him.

The first few years of our relationship were dynamic. There was a significant push and pull related to my feeling of worthlessness. We got married five years after we met, and it wasn't until our second year of marriage that I realized that I was, in fact, deserving of him. Shortly after the birth of our first child, I saw a marriage counselor on my own. It was through this I came to understand that our relationship would never survive as long as I felt that he could do better. I woke up...and with this awakening, our marriage grew stronger.

Our eleventh wedding anniversary is nearly a month away. I sit here with two sons and the love of my life...and my weight did not hold me back from having the life I always dreamed of. I was one of the lucky ones that was able to find happiness before my weight loss. In many ways it was a blessing, because I will always know that I was enough for him, even as a fat girl.

Steve, the weekend we met, 1996

,

Steve, 2007

Steve and Graham, 2011

Steve, Graham and Simon, 2013

Me and Steve, 2010

Steve and the boys,2013

Our little family, 2013

on my knees...

It is Sunday, January 23, 2011.  At about 5:30 AM I shoot out of bed...something feels wrong, but I can't decipher what. My husband, who NEVER wakes up, jumps up with me and asks me what's wrong. I tell him that I thought I heard one of the kids fall out of the bed...but I am mistaken. It was nothing...I'm back to sleep in ten minutes. Around 6:05 AM the phone rings, and my life is changed forever.

I don't remember much from that phone call, but my husband tells me that when I answered, the first thing out of my mouth was, "He's gone, isn't he?" I didn't even say hello. I just knew...I felt it. The first man to show me unconditional love...my amazing, sweet, funny, empathetic, and loving dad...was gone forever. It has been the most soul crushing moment in my life thus far. I had never known that kind of grief and pain. I suppose it is a part of life, but nothing that one can ever prepare for.

Dad spent the last seventeen years of his life in a chair. He was a shut-in, unable to leave the house due to the physical limitations caused by the sheer size of his body. He couldn't fit in most cars or in a standard wheelchair. While I don't have an actual weight on him at the time of his death, I know that his last confirmed weight hovered around 570 pounds, and at his highest he weighed in at 620. He missed my college graduation, wedding, and the birth of my two children because he was a prisoner in his own body. Having always considered myself daddy's little girl, my dad's absence was always in the forefront of my mind at such moments in my life.

The final years of our lives together could be measured in phone calls and occasional visits, every year or so. We spoke almost daily...but he wasn't an active participant in my life, or his own for that matter. He died three years ago, but if you ask me, he wasn't really living in the years before his death. Sure, he could call and catch up with me and the kids, but it wasn't the same. How could it be?

At the time of my dad's death, I was probably close to 275 pounds. Definitely overweight, but not the biggest I had ever been (I was 360 pounds when I had gastric bypass in January of 2002). At 275 pounds, my weight held me back emotionally, always...but physically, I was able to waddle through life without much trouble. Of course I wasn't running through the park with my kids, jumping at the chance to put on a bathing suit, or hopping on roller coasters...but I could definitely kid myself into thinking that my weight wasn't restricting my overall quality of life. I mean let's face it, I could get in and out of cars without much trouble and I no longer needed seatbelt extensions on airplanes. But I still found myself studying chairs, estimating their weight capacities in order to prevent them from crumbling beneath my ass (as with most fat people, this has happened to me more than once).

I was always in a constant state of worry that my boys would be embarrassed of me. For this reason, I avoided volunteering at school. I always feared children's honesty. Kids throw around the word "fat" innocently and at times, carelessly. I once had a little boy tell me I was fat when I was bending over to tie his shoe. As much as I wanted to untie his shoe again and walk away, I just told him that it wasn't a nice thing to say and left, feeling crushed. Remembering how much my dad's size mortified me as a child, I didn't want to give my kids the chance to feel the same way...but it wasn't enough to motivate me to lose weight. It was only enough to sacrifice the only opportunity I had to spend time with my oldest son at school while he was still young enough to appreciate it.

It is sobering to think of all of the ways that my weight has held me back. Of course it hasn't done to me what my father's did to him, but at one point I was headed there. I was sitting on the sidelines....watching my life from the periphery. I just couldn't live like that anymore. I wanted my kids to have a mom they were proud of...and I was tired of being afraid. Afraid to make eye contact, afraid to get in a bathing suit, afraid to sit in a chair...afraid to get up and live my life.

Dad, 2007

Last visit with Dad, 2009

 

My boyfriend, now husband, Steve and Me two months before gastric bypass, November 2001

 

 

Me (get that girl a fan) and my best friend, Lynelle, November 2001

 

 
Wedding Day, February 2003

Me and my two boys (fat girl rule for photos...avoid the body shot), 2011

 

Focus on the face, 2011

 

Me and my cousin, Lyndsey, October 2012

 

 

 

angry girl...

Perfection doesn't exist. I wish I knew this growing up, but I didn't.  I was an overweight, angry girl watching all of my friends have these seemingly awesome lives, but I was out of the loop. I assumed they were invited to every party and getting any boy they wanted...while I sat at home brooding. I was insecure, jealous, possessive and miserable....and I projected that misery onto others. As a result, my friends started dropping like flies.

This is the point at which I lost many of the friends I have since reconnected with. Some of my favorite people in my life walked out of it in high school...and for good reason. I was unhappy with myself...and I made some pretty regrettable decisions. My behavior was boorish, spiteful, and bitter at times. If you were my friend, you could never meet my expectations.  The affirmation that I demanded exhausted them.  If you were my enemy, I would gang up with other girls that didn't like you and make your life a living hell. It is something I am not proud of. I don't remember everything I did...but some things have stuck with me and haunt me to this day.

As with most teenage girls, I was self-centered and image-focused....the extra weight only made things worse. Being forced to listen to some of my skinny friends drone on about the way their thighs touched (when they had no business worrying about their weight) was tedious and insufferable.  Just a public service announcement to all of the insecure, skinny bitches of the world: nobody wants to hear you whine about your non-existent fatness, especially confident skinny women and the overweight women who actually do struggle.  As an adult, I can step back and see that even thin women have insecurities. They have their own idea of perfection...and sometimes that perfection is unattainable...but as a teenager, I was left feeling hopeless and intensely self-conscious. If those slender girls were disgusted by their own bodies, what must they think of mine? The truth is they didn't...because they were as self-absorbed as I was....some of them still are.

Life is a hell of a journey with a great many lessons to be learned. I have learned what it means to have a good friend, and how to be a good friend in return. I have learned that in high school and in life, everyone has their cross to bear, whether it be their socioeconomic status, their dysfunctional family, or their physical imperfections (as perceived by others or only themselves). I have learned that losing weight doesn't magically make things better and that the most important changes have nothing to do with being fat.

Senior Picture, 1989

High School Graduation Cruise with Mom (sweet dresses)

maybe he won't see me...

My heart is pounding.  I am sitting in my eighth grade home room and my knees are shaking.  The bell is about to ring and I have to navigate the halls to get to my second period class without being seen. 

My junior high school was shaped like a cross. There were strict rules about walking all of the the four pods in a counter-clockwise direction...so if my next class happened to be directly to my left, I had to walk a circle around the entire pod to get there. No big deal if I was a normal girl, but I was fat, and a group of ninth grade boys had decided my new name was Jabba the Hut. There were only about three of them that would refer to me as Jabba....two of them would only say it in passing when they were together. One of them, however, would unleash his verbal assault at the top of his lungs for the entire school to hear. His last name rhymed with callous...Coincidence? I think not.

I hated him. His daily abuse cut me like a knife and made me want to die. I couldn't get away from him and the school did nothing to protect me. Bullying was just part of growing up back then. I just had to deal with it.

My elementary school years were far from perfect, but nothing to complain about, either. I was teased from time to time and always picked last when my fellow classmates were choosing teammates for whatever particular sport we were playing in phys ed.  God I hated P.E...with a passion! For the sake of fat kids everywhere, I sure hope teams are picked randomly these days.  I was a chunky girl with an attitude.  I saw my share of the principal's office for mouthing off to teachers and rolling my eyes at them. Oh! I did get sent home in kindergarten for giving a kid a black eye after he took a bite out of my sandwich at lunch! Now that's comedy!

When I began middle school, my parents decided to sign me up for swim team. This had me exercising for at least an hour a few times each week. It was a blessing in many ways, because I slimmed down considerably. I don't remember the weight loss impacting my self-esteem at this time...I do remember never feeling thin enough, and not being able to fit in my favorite brand of clothing. I remember comparing myself to other girls in my classes and feeling as if their size was unattainable for me. That said, sixth and seventh grade were a blur. I noticed some of my friends were starting to "go out" with certain boys...whatever that meant. But I was young for my grade and ill-prepared for such things...that's not to say I didn't have crushes. My weakness was for short Italian boys...I mean ladies, what's not to like?

I had no idea what was to come as I headed into eighth grade. If I'd have known, I would have begged my parents to put me in Catholic school (it was their long-standing threat). I headed to junior high with wide-eyed optimism. I was excited to be at a new school and I had a small handful of friends. I settled into the school year nicely. I ended up making a few new friends that I have since carried with me into adulthood. Just as the year got rolling, I met a boy that I fostered a slight affection for...another Italian. Not knowing any better, the word got around that I was sweet on him. It was the beginning of my undoing. His older brother caught wind, and his pocket of friends somehow thought it would be a great idea to call me Jabba.  Thus was born my hate-hate relationship with the aforementioned 'callous'.

Going to school was sheer agony. My grades suffered and I started having to see a chiropractor weekly for pinched nerves in my neck from stress. My life passed class period-by-class period, and I dreaded the ring of the school bell signaling the end of each. The boy that did the most damage to my self-esteem tormented me the entire school year..and though he moved onto high school the following year, I was forever broken...

beauty and the beast...

Dad was never a skinny child. His weight fluctuated up and down, like any other kid...but he settled into a nice chub in grade school that carried him through until he could put it to good use when he got involved in football.  

He was a defensive back, and as such, he was big...very big. He was encouraged to pack on the pounds and he did so eagerly. Dad lived out his glory years in high school. He lettered in football and was one of the stars of the local high school football team. He was extremely active during this time, which served him well. He didn't hit a bump in the road until my grandfather had a massive heart attack, which curtailed his plans to go on to play football in college. Instead he found himself going to a nearby community college and working to help support his family. This is when his voracious appetite, coupled with inactivity, began to wreak havoc on his body. Shortly after he was married, his weight began to skyrocket.

My mother was tall, thin, and stunning.  She had an eye for style and a body that was made for it.  She was a naturalized citizen from Colombia and worked hard to meld into an area that was extremely segregated. She had many struggles, but she was determined to make a better life for herself. She was popular in school, took etiquette classes, and participated in beauty pageants. She was a high achiever and let nothing stand in her way. 

I always knew my mom was pretty. My friends and their parents would tell me so. I was aware that her beauty set her apart from many of the other mothers. She loved me fiercely, but I never felt I could live up to her standards. Mind you, these were ideals that I made up for myself. I have little doubt that the emotional pain I endured as an overweight child was excruciating for her to watch. That said, I often interpreted her encouragement to eat a healthy diet as criticism and her enthusiasm for fitness as nagging. Until I became a mother, I never understood that it was actually out of care and concern for my well-being. I thought she was embarrassed of me, because I would never be as beautiful or as thin as she was. It breaks me up, just thinking about it. This dichotomy contributed to a lot of conflict between my mom and me growing up...and in retrospect, it is heartbreaking to think about.

It seemed a painful juxtaposition. Though I loved my parents equally, the parent that I longed to be like I could not identify with, and the parent I identified with most I was embarrassed to be seen with. It absolutely killed me that I was embarrassed to be seen with my dad.  All of my friends adored him, and he was an incredible father...and yet I would cringe when he would pick me up from school. I was afraid the mean kids would see him and talk about how I was fat just like him. I was always so excited when my mom would come to school because I somehow felt it made me more acceptable...as if everyone would see my gorgeous, svelte mother and place me in a new category. But sadly, it never worked...as soon as she left they would just tell me how pretty she was....and again, all of the insecurities would come bubbling to the surface....and nothing made me feel better...except maybe burying my face into a cheeseburger. But that only lasted a minute...three, tops.

Me and my beautiful Mom...I was 8 years old

me and mom...I was around  6 years old

dad, mom and me...I was around 7 years old

first communion, age 8

she had it coming...

Fat ass, Petunia, wide load, Jabba the Hut, fat pig, whale...the list goes on and on...but I wouldn't want to litter my first post further with every name I have ever been called.  My life as a fat girl is probably like that of any other fat girl: trying to get from point "A" to point "B" without being noticed....and the truth is, it really doesn't take much effort. Not only do people tend to look past, around or through me, I don't look them in the eye anyway...so I probably only have myself to blame. I would say that I notice it more with men, but then again I have had so many embarrassing, degrading, confidence-destroying, and heartbreaking moments in my life that revolved around men or boys that I am a little prejudiced when it comes to the opposite sex. 

The mean girls of the world have had their way with me, too, don't get me wrong...but not as much as one might think. It is my experience that girls and women tend to be harder on the ones who are just a little overweight. I was way outside of that range most of my life...quite the contrary, those mean girls didn't mind having me around. I was absolutely no competition and I was funny....being entertaining can come with perks when it comes to girls. I was okay with that...because I lived to make others laugh...even if it meant making fun of myself. Hell, that was my favorite subject! Still is, if I'm being honest.

I was within normal weight limits until first grade. I spent the summer between kindergarten and first grade with my grandparents and great grandmother (Memaw) while my parents were at work. I would count the hours until my mom or dad would come to pick me up and the only thing my Memaw could think to do was feed me. She was a hillbilly from West Virginia. She built her own house and knew how to use a shotgun...she shot a man once for trying to break into her house. Memaw could do anything....but she did nothing better than cook. She could make buttermilk biscuits and fried chicken in her sleep...and feed them to me, she would. The fat laden assault was occasionally interrupted by my Papa's contribution of any various confections he could get his hands on. I would ask for M&Ms, he would bring me a one pound bag. Feeding me was his pleasure.

I can't say for sure, but this is when I believe my love affair with food began. It filled the void when I was lonely and comforted me when I was down. It was delicious, glorious and satisfying...but it came with a price. I began packing on the weight that summer, and by my first grade picture, it was obvious the damage was done. 

I won't pretend that I didn't have a family history of morbid obesity. My grandmother was five feet tall and about 320 pounds at her highest weight. She had one of the early versions of gastric bypass that failed miserably due to vitamin deficiencies and liver failure. She had to reverse the procedure, and she gained all of the weight back and then some. It didn't hold her back any...she put herself through nursing school and traveled the world on her own after my grandfather died. I always admired her chutzpah. She referred to herself as the "BBB" (big beautiful blonde) and was always the center of attention. She was amazing....she was also my polar opposite.

I was daddy's little girl...My dad was everything to me growing up. He loved me in a way that every little girl should be loved by their dad. We argued like siblings, but he was always my shoulder to cry on. He was hilarious, opinionated, affable, and fat. Really, really fat. His sense of humor was sometimes cutting, but mostly self-deprecating. He had more friends than most people deserve....but he was fat and he let his weight hold him back. I was daddy's girl, and the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

Kindergarten

Second Grade

Grandmother (Gammy, aka the BBB) and Great Grandmother (Memaw)