Not (for) the Weak

"In a 1969 survey of physicians, obese patients were described as "weak-willed," "ugly," "awkward," and "self-indulgent." In a more recent physician survey, one of three doctors said they respond negatively to obesity, behind three other diagnostic/social categories: drug addiction, alcoholism, and mental illness. A comparable study found that two-thirds of doctors believe obese patients lack self-control, and 39 percent feel they are lazy. Two studies of nurses showed similar results. "

Reading these words tears well up in my eyes. In 1969 my mom was 21. She was getting married and was excited to start her life. She had spent the last four years on diet pills that had her lose weight and kept her weight low. She never said she was skinny, but my mom on her wedding day was about a size 6 or 8. She would be on these diet pills throughout my childhood.

My mom had moments of thin during my childhood. I don't remember those too well, those were the worst moments for me. She and dad started going to the gym when I was about 8 or 9. I put on a significant amount of weight during this time. Stealing food from the cupboard, eating non-food (like butter and raw sugar and cake mix), hiding food in my closet, under my bed. My mom made Keith a different lunch that mine on occasion. Mom didn't let me have Chocodiles, Keith always had them in his lunch. He would come into my room and let me have one. I usually had to pay him or he would use it against me later on.

I remember sitting in the back of the Mustang waiting for mom to get out of the diet doctor's office. To get a perscription, her diet pills perscription. Years later I tried to end it all with these pills, but all that happened was that my arms went numb. Too stupid to even do that right. I waited all night to see if that was it, if this could be it. It wasn't.

There were so many things left unsaid.

The candy under the front seat of her car that Keith and I would eat. In later years, I would do the same thing, eating meals before I would go home to eat a meal, whatever I was feeling to be pushed down. Hide the evidence, throw trash on the side of the road. Get rid of it. I now can ask myself what the issue is, and not eat over it. I may not get a resolve, but I am present to the behavior.

The sound of the bottles in the trash in the morning. Wine jugs. Green Gallo wine jugs, one a night. I can't stand the smell of it in the trash now-- if I happen to drink wine, I will immediately take the bottle out of the house when I am done.

The afternoon naps that mom took-- that were really a time for her to eat quietly in her room. I interrupted her feast one afternoon. I thought it was like tea time. It was only for her. Not for me. I think I keep waiting to be invited in. To share that secret with her. To be loved. I would stand outside her door and listen to things being unwrapped. Chips, cookies, crackers, soda bottles being opened. I would quietly try the door, but it was locked. Locked out, not good enough. Not invited to the party. Lingering at her door, hoping that she would find me there and in her sweet sweet voice say "Kimmie, do you want to take a nap on mommy's bed?" Yes yes yes.

In 1969, she was ready to start her life. Someone told her somehere that she was lazy and ugly, and she has been living with that for years. It brings tears to my eyes. She told me that I was lazy and unmotivated. I wonder if she would have said that if I was skinny. My mother is far from lazy, I am far from lazy. Everything she learned I learned. She learned how to sneak food, I learned how to sneak food. She learned to keep it all under control I learned how to keep it under control-- using charm and grace and charm and grace and charm and grace and maybe just maybe no one will ask, no one will know, no one will care that I hate myself.

That I hate myself, I hate my body, I feel like I am not worthy of living and it hurts. Because of my weight. Because of this weight. And it's scary when I come right down to it. Because I would never say that to another human being, that they are not worthy to live because of their weight. I am so much more than that and for me, that's all that's there.

I keep looking for something that will answer it all. But there is nothing. I learned how to make everything easy for everyone else.

That crap is over with. Me first, me fucking first.

I mourn for the little girl not invited to the tea party. I mourn for the mother that can't control what she is doing. I mourn for the teenager that was just sad, so so sad, underneath a big smile and a song. I mourn for myself at 8, stealing food. Getting caught. Crying crocodile tears. Why didn't anyone sit down with that little girl and say "I love you, and anything you want you can have. What is it that you really want?", rather than the yelling and the locks and the "go to your room".

Mom,
I never want to go to my room again. Never fucking again. I am not playing this unspoken game anymore. I am not doing anything different than what I have learned from you. I am now a grown up, and I can take responsibility for my own stuff. I'm not sure the 8 year old wants to forgive you, the 8 year old just wants her mom to love her. Unconditionally. And not try to make her into something she's not. The 8 year old wants to get mad, and get even. That 8 year old want to be heard. She wants someone to pay attention to her. She wants you to prove to her that you are trustworthy, and that you will love her no matter what.
The 8 year old wants you to say you are sorry and mean it. Really mean it. And not do it again. Ever. You will love her. You will love that fat, food stealing 8 year old because she learned from you. And I will love her because she is me.

I am scared that I will never be able to be normal. I am afraid that I have lost ever chance there is for me to thin. Even with surgery I will have skin that looks deflated.

I am so scared that I will always feel this way, and no amount of work will change anything. I am afraid I will never stop crying over this.

I'm not weak. I've made myself so fucking powerful that I am a walking mountain. I give that up to be vulnerable.

This hurts. Like being filleted. I think I am crazy and over emotional. I didn't leave my house this weekend. But I don't care. I did the work on me. Meditated, yoga'ed and worked out. I ate well balanced meals. I listened to myself and wrote a lot in my journals. And thought. Thought alot. I have so much to say. I don't know if anyone wants to listen, but I must be heard.