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)