When you begin therapy and start facing the thoughts, feelings and emotions you’ve avoided for so long, you start to realize that your entire existence has been affected by the abuse you endured.
One of the things I have struggled with for most of my life is my weight. I can’t remember a time when I was thin. But what constitutes “thin?” Looking back at pictures of myself in my twenties, I wasn’t fat by society’s standards, but I wasn’t the accepted body size that society loves to idealize.
At my lowest weight I was 140 pounds. I thought I was fat. At my highest weight, when pregnant, and after receiving a diagnosis of pre-eclampsia and elevated blood sugar, I weighed 274 pounds. Typing that makes me cringe.
As I child I didn’t learn the proper way to eat. Food was forced. I don’t mean physically, but emotionally. I had an aversion to green vegetables so I was yelled at until I ate them. I remember sitting at the dinner table, gagging because I didn’t like the texture and taste of peas or green beans, and my dad would yell at me until I would eat them. Sometimes he’d threaten spankings or say that I was hurting my mom’s feelings by not eating what she made. (The fact that I grew to love these foods as an adult is quite funny to me.)
There were times when I would refuse to eat something and my mom would fret over it. To her, not eating meant I was going to starve. She would make other meals to compensate and they weren’t always the healthiest. Mashed potatoes with a whole stick of butter added to the pot, Salisbury steak, lasagna, casseroles, and other high fat foods were in her rotation.
When I moved out at 18 years old, I started trying to figure out what to eat and how to cook. I didn’t know a thing about macros or portion sizes. I would go through periods of starving myself so that I wouldn’t gain weight, then I would binge eat out of extreme hunger. I was obsessed with trying to trick my body into weight loss and it never worked. I believed that being thin like the models in magazines or the actresses in movies was how I was supposed to look. My perception of beauty was very skewed.
My eating disorder caused my weight to fluctuate so much and so often that my body was in distress. I stopped getting my period. I had terrible stomach pains. I finally went to the doctor and he ran a gamut of tests. Then, at 19 years old, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) which added additional challenges. My hormones, namely insulin, were affected by my cycle of starvation and binges, and I started gaining weight no matter what I ate or how often I exercised.
A few months ago I was talking with a therapist about my weight struggle. In therapy I address the emotional and psychological abuse I experienced, and it has helped me to uncover the deep-seeded feelings of guilt and shame I felt. When it was mentioned that sometimes the body wears weight as armor, I started to cry.
Some women aren’t overweight because they eat big portions (I don’t), or because they loathe the treadmill (I love it). It’s not because they have a thyroid problem (I’ve checked, dozens of times, despite having the symptoms). It’s not because they are lazy (I’m definitely not).
For some women, excess weight is a shield. For me, having been brainwashed to believe I was never smart enough, good enough, strong enough, thin enough or pretty enough, my weight was a barrier to the outside. It was an excuse for me to hide. It was a way for me to avoid…anything and everything.
For years I’ve wondered why I struggle to keep the weight off. I start with intention, I make progress and then I quit. Why do I do this? In a recent conversation with a fitness trainer, I discovered the answer:
Trainer: “It seems that you’ve made progress before, what happened?”
Me: “I don’t know. I guess I just quit.”
Trainer: “Why? At what point do you quit? What are the triggers that make you decide to give up?”
Me: “I don’t know. I guess I start noticing the things others say to me and it leads to self-doubt or I worry about what others think. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Trainer: “What do people say to you? And are these important people in your life? Sounds to me like you need to lose these people. They are extra weight.”
That’s when I realized what is holding me back.
Some people say things in a backhanded way:
“Gosh, don’t you look skinnier.”
“Wow, what’s finally working for you?”
(Things said to me in a sarcastic tone.)
Some people make comments behind my back:
“She thinks she’s hot now.”
“She’s not as fun now that she’s going to the gym.”
“She’s never going to lose the weight, I don’t know why she tries.”
(Things I overheard “friends” say in a bathroom stall.)
Subconsciously, I began to believe that I didn’t deserve to be fit and healthy. Certain people have only known me as an overweight person, and for some screwed up reason my weight loss bothers them. Even more messed up is the fact that I let these people affect me.
Why?
Because this type of abuse is familiar to me.
Emotional abuse. Psychological abuse. It’s all I knew. It was “normal.”
For too long I was a people pleaser. I avoided conflict because I didn’t want people to be mad at me for standing up for myself. I didn’t want people to dislike me for sharing my honest thoughts and feelings. I cared more about others’ feelings than my own.
After talking to the trainer I shared the lightbulb moment in therapy. I was reminded that I need to love myself more than others love me. I need to pull off the masks of shame, guilt and failure. I need to let go of the negative crap that manifests in my life and my body so that I can emerge with a new shape, new mind, new resilience and a new connection to my true, radiant self.
It’s been a few weeks since I had this epiphany and a few pounds have already fallen off.
Imagine that.
I choose self-love, not self-loathing.
Hey Dana Jane 