There is a bag of peanut m&m's in my kitchen. It's in the back right corner of the second drawer to the right of the stove. I can report that it is about 3/4 full, the open edge is folded over twice and secured with a bright pink clip, it’s sitting on top of two folded dishtowels, and it is covered by a rarely used black and white oven mitt with a picture of a cow on it (Which makes me wonder: why do I even have that mitt anymore? It never matched my decor, it has a charred spot on the thumb from an accidental burner cover flame up over 10 years ago, and it's been relegated to the back of a drawer in three separate homes now. I suppose I should throw it away…but then what would I use to cover the m&m's?) . The front of the package is facing down, and though it’s been three days since I’ve opened the drawer and looked directly at it, I am absolutely sure I’ve described it accurately.
If you're thinking that seems like a strangely vivid description for something as inconsequential as an open bag of candy, I agree with you. As I write this, I confess that I don't know the exact whereabouts of my car keys, that I'm not sure how much cash I've currently got in my purse, and though I'm fairly certain my child is in the house right now I'm not ready to swear to that fact. I couldn't tell you what color underwear I put on this morning, or what the last task I completed today at the office was--but the bag of candy hidden away in my kitchen drawer? That I can describe in painstaking detail. It's a little nutty, I grant you. But so, then, are those m&m's...chocolatey, nutty, both salty & sweet with a satisfying initial crunch followed by a burst of flavor...but I digress. Sorry.
The peanut m&m's in question came into my possession in the normal way. Walking through the grocery store a few days ago, I came upon a large display of bright yellow bags with the double m's sandwiching an ampersand above which hung a giant sign proclaiming “2/$4”. So I bought one. A perfectly ordinary thing to do, really.
Only it didn’t quite happen that way. Well, it happened the way I said it did, except that there were a few other things that transpired in the space between “2/$4” and “So I bought one”. I picked up two bags, and began to put them in my cart before my brain became fully aware of what my hands were doing. Catching myself in the nick of time, I shook my head and put them back on the shelf then steered my cart down the aisle. Five feet later I stopped, turned around and looked again at the stack of yellow bags, then turned back to my cart and pushed it forward. Then pulled it backward, then once more forward, then I stood still. I took my hands off the cart, turned around, walked right back up to the display, grabbed two bags, then stood there for a minute longer. In my head, the largest part of my brain was having a logical, reasoned discussion with itself. This was candy, I thought—just an innocuous, inanimate confection that has only as much power as I give it. I did not need to buy it, did not need the empty calories, and have proven repeatedly through the years that a bag of peanut m&m’s isn’t safe in my presence. But the other part of my brain, the one that must be a remnant of base evolution and is much smaller than it’s saner counterpart but also much, much louder shouted a repeated, insistent chant of “buy it buy it buy it but it buy it buy it buy it buy it…” In the end, I struck a mental compromise and walked back to my cart with one bag of candy.
I’m not sure I have to tell you what came next, how when I got home I opened the bag and doled out (and ate) a single serving of the candy…and then another…and then one more. I think you’ve already surmised that after serving number three was consumed in record time I folded over the edge of the bag, secured it with the aforementioned pink clip, and shoved it into the back of a kitchen drawer, covering it with the oven mitt for good measure. I would rather not tell you about how I then went upstairs, sat on the edge of the bed, put my hands over my eyes, and cried. I certainly wouldn’t try and tell you that it was the first time something like this had happened to me, and if I did tell you that I wouldn’t expect you to believe me.
Gee, I wonder if I have food issues.
You know how in teen movies featuring a cast of zany characters at a high school or summer camp there is typically a lunch room scene in which one of the main characters will be wronged by their arch rival and retaliates with some PG version of throwing their martini in his/her face? Predictably, someone will stand up on their chair and yell “Food Fight!” and hilarity, in the form of handfuls of cafeteria fare being flung about, ensues. Amidst the chaos there’s almost always a cutaway shot to the obligatory fat kid crouched under the table who is eagerly consuming what everyone else is tossing around. That’s me. I’m not joining in on the gratuitous food-throwing because that’s just a damn waste of chocolate pudding and spaghetti & meatballs.
My brain, the same one that remembers the lyrics to every song I’ve ever heard, that can recall exactly what position on the page the answer to a high school history test question was in my textbook, and that contains millions of neural pathways that make catching on to new processes and tasks so easy for me is the same organ that is makes dealing with food such a, well, mind game. Food is never just food to me—it’s never simply the fuel that my body uses to power itself as it moves through the world. To me, food is a sensory experience of such epic proportions that I am alternately consumed and paralyzed by it. It isn’t ‘normal’, and I’ve always been conscious of that fact on some level. Food isn’t a pleasant diversion—it’s an obsession. If I’m not obsessing about how to acquire and consume as much of it as humanly possible, I’m obsessed with the idea of avoiding doing just that, with the process limiting my intake of it.
The food fight that’s raged in my mind for 37 years is one that ebbs and flows, one that I would gladly end for good if I only knew how. I long for a relationship with food that is something resembling functional and I imagine that to those lucky enough not to be in possession of their own set of food issues are puzzled by the battle. If I recount to them the painful consequences that my behavior has netted me, they shake their heads and dole out advice that essentially boils down to: Stop it! If only it were that easy.
I have spent my whole life fighting with food. I’ve had hours and hours of imaginary conversations with it that have run the gamut from angry diatribes to tender declarations of adoration. I have at times resisted it as actively as any alcoholic staring down the bottle, and other times I’ve succumbed to it with the same surrender and joy of a lover’s embrace. Looking back over my life, I am struck by just how important food was to me—how important it still is. Examining the pattern from a distance, I can see how my relationship with food is a barometer of the status of my life at any given time. When life is chaotic, when I find myself overwhelmed and stressed out, my eating habits mirror that state--and when life is in balance, when I feel in control and capable, food and I call what looks (and often feels) like an easy truce. But when the balance gets disrupted I find myself right back in the fight.
Maybe the secret to winning the battle is to simply surrender to the notion that it will never be over. If I accept that working to achieve balance in my life is my best defense while also accepting that balance is precarious in nature and will sometimes be thrown off kilter, then I can work on my offensive strategy as well. My relationship with food may never been “sane”, per se, but with continued practice maybe it can be rendered just a little less crazy. Whether or not that’s a realistic goal, I’m just not sure.
What I am sure of is this: An all you can eat Chinese buffet is probably always going to be a minefield for me. A trip to a frozen custard shop is likely never going to be a peaceful, anxiety free experience. And looking into my future, it’s likely that I’ll find myself sitting at the edge of the bed again in tears over the power a bag of m&m’s has over me at least every once in a while. The fight may never be over, but I think I’m strong enough to stay in the ring.
Chin up. Fists up. Back in the fight.
(A few weeks ago my friend Bill suggested that, in our ongoing effort to honestly explore our respective battles against obesity, that we pick a topic and both use it as a jumping off point for a blog entry. He chose the phrase “fighting with food”, and the above essay is where I took that idea. You can read Bill’s excellent take on the subject (and many others) here. Enjoy!)
Child rearing is an imperfect science, at best. No matter how prepared we think we are, I don't know a single parent who hasn't felt at least a tiny prick of panic at the responsibility the job brings with it (I remember the day I left the hospital after my son was born that I had this surreal moment of feeling like a shoplifter--like at any moment someone was going to yell out "Hey you! Where do you think you're going with that baby!"). Regrettably, babies don't come with instruction manuals so we have to make do with on-the-job training and the lessons we learned from our own parents.
I have amazing parents. I do not say this casually, or just because I know they read my blog (Hi Mom & Dad!)--I say it because it's true, because the more I see of this world the more I realize that not everyone can say the same. Every day I hear stories of how other people's childhood obesity was handled by their parents & families, and it's often heart breaking. It's hard enough to be a fat kid in this world, to be reminded at every turn that the body you live in is a subject for open ridicule by your peers (and adults for that matter), but to then come home and have the people who are supposed to love and cherish you the most treat you with the same disdain must be a singularly painful experience. One woman told me that her father would yell for everyone to hold on to something because 'the earthquake was coming' whenever she got up to walk across the room. Another relayed how her mother would discourage her from eating at the table by snorting like a pig when she reached for a second helping. A particularly horrible story I read years ago about how one man's parents told him when he was 12 years old that he couldn't go on vacation with the rest of the family unless he lost 20 pounds before the trip--and how he spent the week they traveled to the beach at home alone with his grandmother--has never left me.
Let me be perfectly clear: My parents never treated me that way. EVER. I don't have any memory of either of my parents ever openly ridiculing me for my weight problem, of any cruel name I was called or any reference made comparing me to a farm animal. I don't recall a single time that I thought to myself that my parents might love me more if only I wasn't so fat. Don't get me wrong--I have a litany of memories filed away of indignities visited upon me as a result of my obesity, in childhood and otherwise. Some I'm able to shrug off, some I can even summon a giggle about, and some are as fresh and sharp in the retelling as they were when they happened. But these memories, without exception, do not star my parents as the protagonists. That said, let me be perfectly clear about this as well: My obesity was never ignored by my parents either.
As my weight began to exceed that of an average child, my parents tried different strategies to encourage me to shed the pounds. I spent my formative years in and out of programs like Weight Watchers, DietCenter, and even a Children’s Hospital childhood obesity program called ‘The Body Shop’ (twice!). I was encouraged to exercise, had my food intake monitored regularly, and was bribed with the promise cute new clothes in smaller sizes. But nothing that being thinner promised held the same appeal that food did for me. After all the time and money they spent on each failed attempt to stop my obesity in its tracks, I can imagine how frustrated my parents must have been with me. I do not pretend to know what discussions they had about me in the late night confessional of their bedroom. I suppose that I baffled them, that having never been fat kids themselves my inability to control my weight was something they couldn’t relate to. I imagine, however, that my failures disappointed them—that each attempt to reign in my ever increasing bulk that came and went with no measurable progress left them a little more hopeless where I was concerned. I don’t know for certain how they felt because, well, I’ve never asked. Maybe I’m afraid of what they would say.
What I do know is this: The shame and guilt over my obesity that was heaped upon my shoulders wasn’t put there by my Mom & Dad. I believe that every hope and dream that we have for our children boils down to the most simple –trite, even—of motivations: We just want our children to be healthy and happy. And the cold, hard truth is that obese children are often neither.
Platitudes and politically correct attitudes aside, it’s tough to be a fat kid. Poll any adult who spent their formative years overweight about their worst childhood memories and I’ll bet you a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts that the vast majority of them will be centered around the fat. Ask them to list the humiliations that come with living in bodies so much larger than their classmates and they’ll have them at the ready. Ask them if the thought of gym class still evokes a special brand of anxiety rarely equaled in their adult life. Have them recount to you the times they were driven to tears by the treatment of others, and how quickly they learned that crying only made the teasing worse.
The way I see it, you’ve got two choices as a fat kid:
In my informal study of those of us who grew up fat, I’ve found that the choice we make follows us into adulthood. Me? I chose the latter. If I was destined to be fat, if I was going to be noticed in every situation by virtue of my overweight body, I might as well cultivate another attribute or two that were just as noticeable. I excelled academically, I found activities I was good at and worked to be the very best at them. I was determined that if I was going to have a fat butt, I was also going to BE a “fat, but…” So I was fat, but smart. Fat, but accomplished. Fat, but funny. Fat, but…miserable, beneath it all.
Looking back now I can see that my parents wanted me to be happy, and that every attempt they made to help me get a handle on my obesity was geared toward that end. The truth is that, had they been successful, my life would likely have turned out much differently than it has. But does it then follow that I would be happier?
My friend Bill says that growing up overweight is an experience he is ultimately grateful for because it helped him to be compassionate to the struggles of others--even when he couldn't extend that same compassion to himself. Looking back over my own childhood I tend to agree. If my obesity has shaped me into the person I am today, then I am grateful for it. We spend so much time denying the effect that our weight has had on us, telling ourselves that it doesn’t define us. Bullshit. My weight has been one of single largest factors in nearly every decision, big or small, that I’ve ever made. It has been the most obvious, noticeable thing about me for most of my life, so how could it not have shaped me as a human being?
In finding the ability to be grateful for the unexpected gifts I’ve received in this life, I am also learning how much I have to be thankful for from the likeliest of sources. As my weight loss journey continues into new, uncharted continuing territory, I reflect back on my lifelong battle with the fat and cannot help but give thanks to the two people who first taught me it was important to fight it. For the first time in my life, I am looking back over the countless weight loss ‘failures’ in my life and recognizing them for what they really were: The first steps in a lifelong journey, the unsteady baby steps that prepared me to stand up and walk with surer strides. With every step forward, with every hill I climb, and with every stumble I recover from, I am getting healthier—and yes, happier.
Thanks, Mom & Dad. I couldn’t have done it without you.
I dropped my 12-year-old son Connor off at his friend’s house for a sleepover a few weeks ago. This boy and Connor have a lot in common and have been friends since kindergarten. His parents are lovely people, full of smiles & friendly conversation—and their son is a terrific kid. He’s bright, polite (he uses napkins and coasters without being asked to!), and adorable—a little wisp of a thing with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles. His little sister is equally adorable. She’s 9, with beautiful strawberry locks and big blue eyes. She’s a sweet, smart, friendly little girl… and she is also about 40 pounds overweight.
I want to say it doesn’t matter what she weighs, that it isn’t important in the grand scheme of things, but it wouldn’t be true. The truth is that her life will be harder, she will feel pain that her brother won’t. Their parents both struggle with their weight, Dad much more severely so than Mom, but the little white ball for obesity on the genetic roulette wheel skipped right over their son to land squarely on their daughter. They live in the same environment, are exposed to the same choices and opportunities, and yet only one of them is obese. Seeing these two siblings drives home for me that--while I firmly believe that it is our choices and habits that keep us fat--I also believe that what makes us fat in the first place often isn’t a choice we make at all.
I’ve been overweight my whole life. Well, no, scratch that—I’ve been overweight for most of my life. There is evidence that there was once a perfectly normal sized child who answered to my name living in my parent’s house. Bright eyed, dimpled & apple cheeked she smiles out at me from photographs mounted on walls and tucked away in albums. In what was likely the first (and definitely the last) photograph of me in a bikini, the girl I was has skinny little legs, a single chin, and a slim torso encircled by her father’s arm. My kindergarten school picture reveals a smiling face (regrettably framed by an admittedly heinous haircut—I can only assume that it was fashionable at the time to shear one’s daughter like a sheep) atop a slim neck that disappears into a rust colored jumper, which, if memory serves, featured a screen print of Holly Hobby on the front. She’s a perfectly normal, average sized girl—downright cute, even.
Flip ahead one year, to my first grade photo, and things begin to change. The girl in the shot is not obese (yet), but she’s definitely plump. Turn the page and see a second grader in her blue velour vest and peach blouse that scarf-tied at the neck (God, I loved that outfit!) who’s face is fuller still…and so on. Stack up the 13 wallet sized pictures that chronicle my school years and use your thumb to reveal them one at a time in quick succession and you’ve got a flip-book that could be titled “Girl Gets Lips Stuck On Bicycle Pump”. These pictures outline my progression from healthy little girl to morbidly obese woman, they have a story to tell—but I’ll be damned if I know just what that story is.
You see, I’ve looked at each chapter of my life and examined that face as it changed. I’ve scoured my memory for a significant event, a pivotal moment that marks where the numbers on the scale began to ascend faster than they should have. All that thought, all that searching finally led me to the truth about the watershed event my obesity stems from: There isn’t one. Which is a bummer. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful that there is no tragedy or trauma that initiated my struggle with obesity--but I am frustrated with the conclusion I must draw in the absence of one: I am programmed to be fat. When the genetic dice were rolled, I got a pair of big fat snake eyes. Lucky me.
I assume that if you were to examine the 23 chromosomal pairs that comprise my DNA, one of them would be noticeably heftier than its 22 little friends. I am, I believe, hard-wired for obesity. My mind and body are uniquely designed to have both an extraordinarily focused relationship with food and the physical capability to continue to consume it in astonishing quantities and convert it to fat. When it comes to gaining weight, I am simply built for the task. And what’s more, I’m good at it. Downright gifted, in fact. But—and it’s a pretty big but (ha!)—does that mean that the fight against my obesity is futile?
The genetic grab bag is filled with surprises. There are ticking time bombs, slow leaks, secret doors, and booby traps in each of our unique DNA sequences. I am not thrilled that I’ve been saddled with obesity, but I find it pretty hard to feel too sorry for myself when I consider what I could be up against. My Aunt Sandy is battling Parkinson’s disease, her nervous system is slowly rebelling against her and outside of a few palliative medications, there isn’t a darn thing she can do to stop it. A coworker of mine learned recently that she carries the gene that caused the breast cancer that killed her mother, two aunts, grandmother, and likely other women through the generations. She worries about her future, about whether she’s passed the same gene along to her three daughters. But even if she has, there’s nothing she can do to change that fact. I, on the other hand, have something they don’t have, something precious that I could not live with myself if I continued to squander. I have a choice.
If a propensity toward obesity is my cross to bear, then I can choose between two courses of action: I can leave it in my path where it lies, and each time I trip over it and it gets in the way of where I want to be, I can shrug my shoulders and accept that this obstacle will always be in my path. Or I can pick it up, hoist it onto my shoulders, and accept that the only way to move forward is to pick up my burden and start walking. Both choices are difficult, but the choice is still mine to make--and I choose the latter. Fat may be my birthright, but it doesn't have to be my destiny.
What do you choose?
