The Ostrich and The Potato

The first time I ever thought of myself as fat I was 11 years old. That also marked the first time I started attending public school (other than kindergarten). I had swimming for PE, and I was immensely embarrassed by how I looked in my bathing suit, particularly because I had already developed breasts. I would constantly compare my thighs to others, and I remember hating how they looked when I was sitting down; all spread out and W–I–D–E. I would sit slightly off chairs so that I could raise my thighs off the seat in a vain attempt to make them look thinner. By the time I was 13, I was wearing shirts that were big enough to cover my butt and my hips because I was convinced they were gigantic. I was 5’2″ and 115 pounds (I’m still 5’2″ and have been since I was 13). As a frame of reference, it’s been reported that Kim Kardashian is 5’2″ and 117 pounds, and Christina Aguilera is 5’2″ and 115 pounds. So clearly I was gigantic. I need to add here that I was never made fun of for being overweight (for being ugly, yes; fat, no); this was just how I saw myself.

It was after I got kicked out of college and decided to join the Army that the word “fat” truly began to permeate my psyche. I had signed my contract, took my oath, and was scheduled to depart for Basic Training in July 1993. Upon my arrival at the processing station (MEPS for you military types), it turned out that I was overweight. I don’t remember how many pounds I was over the limit, but I know it was less than ten. That didn’t matter though; showing up heavier than whatever the height/weight table listed meant that your contract was cancelled and you weren’t going anywhere but back to the house. I remember going home, humiliated, already upset with myself for flunking out of college (that’s a whole other blog post, believe me), and feeling positively massive. I’m fairly certain I weighed either in the high 120’s or low 130’s, which, again, is NOT fat. I went home, started running more, and went on a strict diet. I remember sneaking to the convenience store on one rather desperate day to get Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups because whenever I’m deprived of something, all I can think about is whatever it is I can’t have. My Mom was monitoring my diet, and believe me, she’s stricter than any drill sergeant could ever hope to be. It was summertime in Texas, and I was miserable. I went on the Slim Fast plan, and it worked. I went back to the recruiter, signed another contract, and left for basic training in November 1993. This time when I went to MEPS I made weight, but the damage was already done.

In the Army, if you don’t meet the prescribed weight on the height/weight table, you get “taped” to determine your amount of body fat. There is another table for the maximum allowable amount of body fat for your age and sex (the height/weight table is also broken down by age and sex). Measurements are taken of various parts of the body (it’s different for men and women). At the time I was in the Army, women were measured at their neck, forearm, wrist, and hips (“Measure Soldier’s hip circumference while facing Soldier’s right side by placing the tape around the hips so that it passes over the greatest protrusion of the gluteal muscles (buttocks) as viewed from the side”). As a curvy woman, these were the worst places they could possibly measure me. My wrists and forearms were small, my waist was tiny, and my hips? Well, they were (are) definitely child-bearing. Just saying. I can count on one hand the number of times in my entire military career that I did NOT have to get taped. As a matter of fact, the only time I was ever singled out because I was too thin was during Beast Barracks at West Point. Beast Barracks occurs the summer before your plebe (freshman) year. It was hot and humid, I didn’t feel like eating, and we could only chew each bite 3-5 times before we had to swallow (there’s a joke in there somewhere, I know it). Being a naturally lengthy masticator, this did not bode well for the amount of food I was able to ingest at mealtimes, so I lost 18 pounds in two and a half weeks. That was the last time in my cadet career that I had that problem, believe me. There was one memorable incident while I was a cadet at West Point that occurred the night before a weigh-in. I took a laxative to lose as much weight as possible before the next morning because I knew I would have to be taped, and I ended up shitting my bed. I passed the tape though. True story. Fast forward to my senior year, an engagement, graduation, and my wedding caused me to start freaking out even more about my weight. I started taking Stackers, a diet/energy pill that had ephedrine in it. Let me tell you, that stuff worked. As far as I know, I didn’t develop any health issues from it (thank goodness), and it helped curb my appetite and gave me energy to work out (this is not a paid commercial for ephedrine). I went back down to 119 – 121, had to get my size 4 wedding dress altered because it was too big, and had to borrow another cadet’s white pants for graduation because I was floating in mine. And guess what? I still thought I was fat. I haven’t seen 121 since then. I was 26 at the time.

I have many, many stories, of almost failed tapings (I never actually failed one, thank goodness) and anxiety caused by weigh-ins (but thankfully no more shitting the bed stories), but what I’m really getting at is how all this corresponds to my relationship with food and the fact that I am an emotional eater, and how that affects my lack of weight control, particularly after I left the Army.

In all honesty, the longest and most consistent relationship I’ve had in my life (other than with my parents, of course) has been with the humble potato. Yes, you read that correctly. The potato, in all its glorious forms: mashed, baked, boiled (my least favorite), French fries (so many varieties!), tater tots, hash browns, and, of course, the mighty potato chip. The potato has been my friend for as long as I can remember. The potato never let me down, never criticized me, never told me when I wanted to eat waffles with peanut butter on them (like toast) that that’s a meal wrestlers eat to gain weight (yes, someone told me that, as I was about to take a bite out of the waffle), and it never, ever broke my heart. Okay, maybe there was that one time that a bag of potatoes turned into some sort of smelly, mushy, dripping science experiment in my pantry; that was kind of heartbreaking, but I digress…….

I was raised on Kraft macaroni and cheese (and I totally still eat it), Swanson’s TV dinners (I’ve since graduated to Healthy Choice steamers), grilled cheese sandwiches, and hot dogs (I totally still eat those as well……insert obvious joke here……that’s what she said). My palate is nowhere near refined, although I am willing to try new things at least once in my old age (also what she said). The amount of knowledge I have regarding nutrition and dieting is ridiculous; if the problem was that I don’t know what foods are good for me and which ones aren’t, this would be easy to solve. The problem is that salty foods, and carbohydrates in particular, are the flame to my moth (mouth? ha! see what I did there?). Whenever I’m happy, sad, bored, tired, cranky………I reach for potato chips. Or I stop at McDonald’s and get their delicious chemically enhanced french fries. And then I pay for it by crying in my closet because I have nothing to wear that doesn’t make me look like the Pillsbury Dough Girl. On top of this problem with carbs and salty foods, I am inherently lazy. Although I feel absolutely wonderful after I exercise, it’s that part needed to get started that I lack. I have a love/hate relationship with exercise and fitness; I am not a naturally gifted athlete. The only sport I’m even halfway decent at is softball (and only slow pitch at that), and that’s only because I work hard. I am not a fast runner, I’m not particularly strong, and I’m ridiculously uncoordinated. The Army, instead of motivating me, forced me down the opposite path; I watched a fellow lieutenant in my battalion become the favorite of the commander because he could run really fast, but he was a terrible leader. If that was the standard by which we measure a good officer, then I guess I was terrible. I also hated running in formation because, again, I am not fast, and even though they always claimed to be running a 9 or 10 minute mile, it was always more of a slinky effect that would cause me to have to sprint just to keep up. I developed quite a few injuries that prevented me from running most of the time, and that was all right with me. Although I am typically a Type A, I have found that I can just as easily slip into Type B and quit the minute that voice in my head says “This is simply too difficult. Just stop and save everyone the trouble.” Not good.

So what happened after I left the Army? Well, my weight gradually started going up, and no one forced me to exercise the way the Army had. Instead of doing something about it, I went into complete denial and would simply buy new clothes in bigger sizes once something stopped fitting properly. After my divorce, I really started packing on the pounds, and after I moved from Michigan to Northern Virginia in 2011, I seemingly gave up altogether. I have never been heavier in my life than I was when I lived there. I peaked at 191. Once I saw that number on the scale, I started looking more closely at pictures of myself, then I looked through the bazillion pairs of jeans in my closet and realized that I had every size from 6 to 16. But did I do anything about it? No, not really. I was so depressed that I would do nothing but sleep and eat crap. Sure, I’d go out every once in a while, but when I did I drank my body weight in beer. I was under extreme financial stress (again a subject for another blog post), and there were a multitude of other stressors that contributed to my depression. I finally sought out a mental health professional, who, for the most part, helped considerably. The problem began when she told me that I didn’t need to lose weight, that I should be happy with how I looked, and that my weight was fine. She refused to listen to me when I told her that I felt like I’d been hiding under my fluff for years at that point, and that I truly did want to be healthier, a natural side effect of that being that I would end up losing weight. What was I hiding from? I believe I was hiding from love. I didn’t want my heart broken again, as it seemed that the only time a man wanted it (and me) was when I was thinner, so if I added layers, no man would want me and my heart would be protected. Sadly, that’s proven to be mostly true.

When I moved to Texas a year and half ago, I decided not to find another therapist, and to instead start being more conscious of what I put in my mouth (that’s what she said) and to begin exercising again on a regular basis (I need to add here that I also possess a wealth of knowledge regarding fitness; again, it isn’t that I don’t know what to do, it’s that I don’t do it). The effect has been the loss of 20 pounds, and the realization that there is a pattern to my depression. When I am sad, I sleep. A lot. I don’t eat meals, I eat potato chips. A lot of them. Sometimes with dip, sometimes without. I eat entire bags in one sitting. The more I sleep, the more tired I am. I reject human interaction, and spend my time away from work either in my bed or on my couch. I make up excuses as to why I can’t exercise, and I ignore the good voice in my head, the one that tells me I’ll feel better about myself if I just MOVE. Overcoming this pattern has been tremendously difficult, as it is easy to slip back into old habits when there is no one there to hold you accountable except that voice in your head that is easily drowned out by the nasty one that always takes the easy way out. I had ankle surgery three months ago, and that time off my feet taught me a lot about how much I truly want to move, and how much I actually enjoy it. I hated not being able to run/walk/maintain my independence. I made a decision that once I was given the all clear from my doctor, I would not take my body for granted ever again. I would treat it right, exercise, and feed it (mostly) decent food. But………I’m human. And it’s far easier said than done, isn’t it?

It’s tough to share this (there are tears in my eyes right now), but I need to in order to move forward, and to get my head out of the sand. My pattern emerged again this past weekend. After four solid weeks of exercise (prompted by weekly FitBit challenges…..I’m a bit obsessed. Okay, I’m a great deal obsessed), I slipped back into my old ways. I became frustrated because even though I can see in the mirror that I’m making progress, the scale keeps showing the same damn number. The rational voice told me that that’s because muscle weighs more than fat, and that I should start taking measurements so I can see for myself that I’m headed in the right direction (even though I can definitely feel the progress I’m making in the way my clothes fit), but I still chose to listen to the evil voice. My feet hurt, and even though my body was telling me to slow down, I had to win those challenges, so I kept going. On top of that, on Saturday I walked away from a toxic “relationship.” Relationship is in quotes because it wasn’t as mutual as I’d like to believe and it technically wasn’t a relationship; I ignored red flags and made countless excuses for someone who deserved none. And he certainly didn’t deserve me. While ending it didn’t break my heart because I never gave it away, it still hurt, and it definitely made me question my decision making abilities. Finally, I didn’t publish a blog post last week, choosing instead to focus on studying for the GRE (which I took last Friday). My unofficial scores are better than the last time I took the test, but not as good as I wanted, which upset me considerably because I know that I am the reason for that (I didn’t study nearly enough). Missing my self-imposed deadline for my blog and my perceived poor performance on the GRE sent me into a mild tailspin; I feel like I let the people who read this down, and most of all, I let myself down.

So what did I do? I took lots of naps and watched hours of mindless television. I never put on a bra or got out of my pajamas (not that there’s anything wrong with that every once in a while. Sometimes the girls just need to breathe and be freed from the constraints of that damn underwire). I let my dogs run around in the backyard instead of taking them on the walks they deserve and have come to expect. I went out and searched for my Reduced Fat Ruffles (okay, so I guess I put on a bra at least once). I finally found some at Target and I bought three bags. That was on Sunday (I’m writing this on Wednesday). They’re all gone now. So yes, I slipped into my old habits, but the good news is that a few other things happened to make me believe I am changing for the better. In between naps this weekend, I went through my closet and collected a box of clothes and a box of shoes (ten pairs!) to donate. I went through my office and got rid of tons of paperwork I’ve been holding onto for years for no particular reason other than their link to my past. And today, instead of feeling like I just want to go to sleep as soon as I get home this afternoon, I have the desire to get out there and run. I want to feel the sun on my face and I want to feel my body getting stronger with each step I take. When I got dressed this morning, I appreciated the woman I saw in the mirror. I’m still not entirely comfortable with the way my body looks right now, but I know how to dress to flatter my curves and to hide or minimize what I see as my imperfections. I’m still on the right path, I just took a slight detour.

Depression is a very real thing; it can consume you. I have had dark moments over the last eight years in which I truly began to believe that the only way out from under was to end my life, but it was always love that saved me from doing the one thing you can never take back. The love of my family, my friends, and my animals (not necessarily in that order). There was always at least one reason to keep breathing, to keep moving forward even when it felt like I couldn’t go on anymore. For a while, I even took medication to help bring me back from the edge. I don’t take medication now, but if it ever becomes necessary again, I will not hesitate to do so, because there is no shame in saying that you choose to live. No matter how shitty your life might be right now, choose to continue living it, because someday it WILL get better. And 100% of the time, there is someone out there whose life would be even shittier without you in it. I share this because even if it speaks to only one person out there, then you will know that you are not alone. None of us are on our journeys alone; others might not be walking on the same path or headed in the same direction as you are, but there’s always someone who will listen to your story. There is always someone who will stand beside you, look into the mirror with you, and see the you that you truly are; not the distorted version we so often see, but the real you. And they will help you see that you.

So what’s the point of this slightly rambling, disjointed, and not entirely humorous post? My point is that we are all on a journey toward our goals, and just because we may stray from the path, those detours don’t have to become our new journey. They don’t have to define us. We must focus on the positives in life, learn from the negative, and keep our eyes on our goals.

Oh, and if you ever need someone to listen, I will. Thanks for reading.