Nobody's fault but yours.

I watched a documentary today that was streaming on Netflix, called My 600-lb Life: Melissa's Story, and it was a very poignant watch for me that resonated hard. It was the kind of thing that really hit me in a vulnerable, emotional mood. Today's been an unstable day with my emotions anyway, but today was also a day that I realized I'm not as strong as I thought I was, and this blog's being used in part to hold myself accountable.

 

I've been fat since I was young, since my dad first pulled his shit with me. Coming into my life and telling me that he was there to stay, then vanishing without a trace, popping in like a rabbit in a magician's hat whenever he felt like causing more drama and pain for my mother and I, I began to internalize my feelings. I wouldn't talk to my mom about it because I knew it hurt her to discuss my father; he was the love of her life and she was convinced that she had done something wrong to make him leave as it was. She didn't need my questions. I started to pack on the pounds, sneaking food into my room late at night, secretly eating cookies or Little Debbie cakes and guzzling sodas and juice boxes and other sugary treats. My family wasn't big on vegetables; we were a mac 'n cheese, mashed potatoes, chicken fried steak type people. Every day when my grandma picked me up from school we went to Sonic or McDonald's or Burger King for a 'snack' to 'tide me over' until dinner. If my mom was watching TV, I'd go to the kitchen and return with a bag of chips and a can of dip or something similar, and by the end credits of the movie we would've polished off the entire thing. It became comforting, although I don't know when that started. Every time I was upset I would reach for food, and of course this stretched out my stomach to the point where it took more to get me full. I'd ask for seconds, or supplement a regular serving size with an extra side dish or a salad or two or three rolls if we were out in a restaurant. I was always eating, forcing bites past my lips even when I wasn't hungry, simply for the fact that it was familiar, it was a security blanket.

It would be easy to lay some of the blame on my mom or my grandma, but really, what's the point? Everyone has That Relative who insists you try her famous cheesecake when you say you can't possibly take another bite of food or you'll pop; I was raised by them. My mom ate to hide her feelings of rejection and loneliness about my dad, and my grandma used food as a balm. She saw it as a direct affront to her Southern hospitality if you didn't stay for dinner, or go for seconds, or have dessert. If she saw me eyeing the dessert menu she'd insist I order something, not letting it go until I was eating a chunk of pie or a bowl of ice cream, because she was convinced that if I didn't order it she was depriving me. I don't know if this was her subconscious way of trying to make up for me being raised by a single mother; all of them were overcompensating, spoiling me with any toy they thought I'd like, buying me tons of clothes, plying me with food. My mom maxed out multiple credit cards, filed for bankruptcy and started the cycle anew right away. She was desperately trying to fill that hole in her heart, and food and shopping were her only two vices. She used shopping as a way to bond with her mother, and the two of them enabled each other; before long my grandpa gave up lecturing my grandma about "bringing one more thing in this damned house" and we just picked and wove pathways through the ever-cluttered houses like mice in a labyrinth of things. All the while, my mother and me were ballooning in weight; she hit over 400 pounds before she decided to do something about it and got very serious, joining a local gym and hiring a trainer.

I was always fat, though. It became kind of my 'thing' I never went on a serious date in high school, ever--- the first time I went to prom it was with a platonic male friend of mine, and then my senior year I went with my gay best friend because I had no romantic prospects. While my friends were making out in the backseat of cars, I was taking pictures of punk bands at local shows and convincing people to make post-show IHOP runs with me because I knew that the night would inevitably end with me shoveling food in my mouth and I would rather do it in a social setting than alone in my house. At one point, I told my then-friend in a non-ironic, deadpan way, "I really wish I had the self-control for bulimia". Did I really wish I had an eating disorder? No. But I was disgusted with myself, with the way I was always using food as a crutch, as a social tool, as an excuse for myself. I was holding myself back by letting myself get fatter and fatter.

Maybe subconsciously I was scared of finding a guy like my mom had, of being hurt by one and falling to pieces under the surface like she was. My mom was the most sweet, caring, generous person I'm likely to ever meet in my life, but my father did a real number on her and up to the day she died, she had not one drop of self-esteem. She bought ugly cotton panties in bags at Walmart and refused to update her hair from the way she'd worn it in the 90s and was the person who was always remembering everyone's birthday and buying graduation presents for kids of coworkers she barely knew simply because she was beaten down and broken by that rejection from my father and she was trying so hard to be liked. She didn't believe she was beautiful; if I told her "Mom, buy that shirt, it looks great on you" nine times out of ten she'd hurriedly shove it back on the rack and come up with an excuse on why she couldn't. Once, I dyed the underside of her auburn hair black and put chunky black streaks through it; she looked amazing and years younger, and since she was coming to rock concerts with me all the time back then, I thought the change would be great for her. But she went to work and someone joked, "What, do you think you're the same age as your daughter now?" She came home and dyed all of her hair a dark brown to get rid of the evidence of the funky streaks, near-tears, and told me that she'd just decided she didn't like it, that was all. I finally wheedled it out of her and then I had to fight the urge to go punch her coworker in the face--- didn't they realize how much bravery it had taken for her to make a change like that? For her to let me paint her nails black once, for her to stop being America's sweetheart and start becoming some of the feisty, spunky girl she'd once been again?

I was the complete opposite end of the spectrum. I was desperate to be alive, to be liked, to be noticed. I was working as a photographer and promoter for bands and I wanted them to like me. Yet automatically upon meeting them, I was delegated to the 'Other' category. I watched band after band talk to the fawning, svelte girls in leggings and tight shirts, in obscenely short skirts and stiletto boots, and I stood there awkwardly waiting my turn for a scrap of attention. I wore push-up bras and hoped that my cleavage would distract everyone from the fat roll below my tits. I cut my hair short and dyed it neon pink and pierced my nose and got tattoos to make myself stand out, to try and be beautiful like the girls I admired. Even when I was wearing backstage credential lanyards, some security guards would stop me because they couldn't believe a girl like me could be with the band. My mom was actually denied backstage entrance to an event with Ryan Dunn from Jackass because, as the security guard so eloquently put it, "they don't let middle-aged fat chicks backstage, sorry lady".

So I've been working through all of this, and this time of the year always makes me kind of nostalgic. Halloween was always my favorite and my mom and I used to dress up together from the time I was an infant; she was the one who took me door-to-door in the nice neighborhoods to get the good candy, and when I was too old for trick or treating we'd sit home together and pass out treats to the neighborhood kids and watch the Michael Myers or Jason Voorhees marathons on TV. After Halloween came Day After Halloween shopping, which was pretty much our version of Black Friday; we'd hit all of the Spirit and Halloween Boutique stores, buying up fake blood and fangs and weird decor at half-off. I have a six foot tall robotic Jason Voorhees because of one such trip. After Halloween comes Thanksgiving, and then Christmas; last year was our first holidays without my grandpa and my mom both, but this year will feel even heavier because I'll be in LA instead of with my grandma. My first holiday season not being home.

When I was in Ohio, I bought a box of buckeye candies thinking "I'll make them last, I'll eat one every few days and really savor them". But the stress and the agonizing drama of moving on short notice has fucked with me, and everything has been going down from family drama to people guilt-tripping me for my lack of free time this week, and so I found myself eating them absently while I watched Netflix. They melt in your mouth, so they weren't taking up a lot of room in my stomach.

This week I've cheated. I've had about one full root beer, split between multiple trips to restaurants; I can never finish a whole soda, but I try, damnit. I've had a few bites of cookies here and there. I've eaten real sour cream on a taco salad instead of Greek yogurt or fat-free. I've eaten flatbread pizza slices even though I know the carbs are bad and the food's probably got tons of preservatives because it was from a restaurant instead of me making it myself.  And, since I returned home on Saturday, I've eaten seventeen buckeye chocolate bon-bons. I finished the box.

That isn't to say I'm completely off the wagon. I've been chugging water and I saw my trainer today for an ab-kicking session of core work, lots of stretching. I've been packing and moving stuff in the house, which is a lot of work in itself. I walked all over Ohio. Breakfast today was a grilled chicken salad, no dressing except guac and a spoonful of sour cream, lunch was fat-free turkey slices rolled around fat-free cheese sticks, dinner was a sugar-free Vitamin Water and more turkey slathered with roasted garlic hummus and rolled up for easy nibbling. I'll probably eat a LiveActive cottage cheese cup before bed and drink a little more water.

But fuck, backsliding makes me sad and I hate knowing that that urge is still in me. The urge to eat when I'm stressed, to use food as an excuse. In my mind I rationalize I worked out for an hour, I can have a bon-bon and then I look down and three are gone. I thought I'd broken this habit and I guess I'm just disappointed in myself.

My weight's still at 215 but everything is shifting around. I'm firmly a 14/16 in jeans now and a medium in t-shirts; the medium at Horrorhound Indianapolis fit but I had to stretch it a bit before I put it on. The medium I just got at the 30 Seconds to Mars show went over my head and fit nicely without even feeling clingy or snug. My BMI went from a 54.7 in January to a 33.1 today, which means that in 3.1 points I will be considered 'overweight' instead of 'obese'. And I still have a ton of energy physically--- it's just my mood that's causing the problems.

I refuse to give in to any more temptation. I've come too far for that. I'm getting rid of all of the bad food in my house and when I get to my new place, I will not backslide. I will hold myself accountable for these things, because I refuse to start putting weight back on. I am stronger than this, fuck. 

I am more than just the 'fat girl' now and I am determined to stay that way. I have an amazing new job and a fantastic group of friends and a great new guy and a whole new city that need to find out who I am now, and I want to find out too.