The Pattern Continues....

I grew from a fairly self-concious child into an even more self-concious teenager. I was made fun of mercilessly throughout my childhood for my weight and because I had a bed wetting problem that lasted until I was in 5th grade. In those days there were no magic pills that could help with that and even though I showered daily, I still had a smell to me.

My father used to call me Stinky. For a long time I thought it was because he thought I really smelled but I learned as I got older that it was simply an affectionate nickname.

All of the torment I went through as a child I'm sure (though I can't remember any specific incident) that I sought comfort in food time and time again. I was always a volume eater. My mother would often take us to Ponderosa where my brothers and I would gorge ourselves on fried chicken wings and french fries, and tacos, and ice cream sundaes. I remember my brother used to go to the bathroom halfway through the meal to "make room" for more food.

We'd often leave the place with chicken wings wrapped in napkins shoved into my mother's purse for later on. I believe I carried on that tradition well into adulthood. Do I wonder why my mother allowed her three chubby children to eat to that extreme, why she didn't just take us to a place where we got one meal instead of five? Yes, well obviously I do. But I don't blame her. She was only repeating a pattern that was provided for her and attempting to soften the blow of a very dysfunctional family life with positive experiences. Because of that I cannot be angry.

I wish I would have had the cognisance to know that what I was doing was only going to increase the misery in my life.

I had trouble controlling myself with everything. I'd drink a glass of apple juice and go back for another because it tasted so good. And then I'd have another. And another. Next thing I knew all of the juice was gone. I'd have two bowls of ice cream. I'd eat a bowl of cereal and not use all of the milk, so I'd pour more cereal so as not to "waste the milk" and I'd do that until the milk was gone. I mean, we didn't have tons of junk food in the house but we certainly had enough and I was creative enough to turn what we had lying around into an artery-clogging addiction.

My mom comments now about how she never would have bought Ramen noodles for us when we were younger, had she realized how bad they are for you. Parents weren't into reading lables back then and worrying about fat and clories and sodium. I used to eat two packages of Ramen for lunch and drown the darn things in butter and salt.

Food was never restricted in our house and I suppose that was part of my problem. I made the decision to eat the way I did and the volume that I did, but I was also the victim of the pre-health era where parents didn't buy low fat, low sugar, low sodium foods. No one cared about low fat ice cream when you could have full fat ice cream. Why drink diet soda when you could have the good stuff?

If I only knew then what I know now. Hindsight is definitely 20/20.

In the Beginning....

I'll set the entire story up by telling you that both of my parents were nice enough looking individuals of about average size until after 1) they had children and 2) dad started drinking. So I was predisposed to my "condition" before I was even a thought in my parent's heads or a pain in their butt's.

I was the third child born to an interracial couple in the early 80's. My mother and father had met 7 years prior to my birth and were married, having my oldest brother Chris in '74 and my other brother Devon in '78.

We were a classically dysfunctional family and I suppose that was another (one of many!) strike against me.

I was a "normal" child up until about the age of 6 or so. I was short for my age but still thin and no one was concerned for my future as an overweight person. At 6 years old an event which is still mostly repressed in my mind kind of kicked off the weight gain and the continuing dysfunction in my family only furthered it.

My earliest memory of being ashamed of myself for my weight was in third grade. My teacher, Mrs. K (I swear if I met that woman in public today...) decided it would be a good idea to weigh each of her students on a weekly basis in front of the entire class.

At 8 years old I was just about 95 lbs or so...when I should have been maybe 60 or 70 lbs. There was one other kid in our class - Frankie - who was a big kid too. The other classmates made bets on who would make it to 100 lbs first. I'm not sure who "won" but I remember how humiliating it was to have to go through that. I just assumed that I didn't have a choice and so I suffered through these weigh-ins. I suppose not speaking up for myself where I felt I was wronged set the tone for the rest of my childhood/young adult years.

Do I blame other people because I grew up to be overweight? No. Not really. There were circumstances which, had they been avoided, may have helped my own self esteem enough so that I didn't need to seek comfort in food, yes. But blaming someone else for my choices is not something you'll read about here.

My mother struggled with her weight as an adult and as a result of that I learned some bad habits. Whenever us kids did something good, we went out to eat to celebrate or mom made something special for us at home. Whenever we had a special event, we went out to eat or mom made something special for us at home. Whenever anyone had a special day ie., birthday, anniversary, what have you...we went out to eat to celebrate or mom made something special for us at home. Whenever we had nothing to do...we went out to eat or went for ice cream. Do you see the pattern here?

I learned to appreciate food as a comforter, stress-reliever, treat, way to celebrate, form of entertainment, etc etc etc. This does not make for a person who will form a healthy relationship with food I'm afraid.