I like Facebook. I post a lot: I'm an exhibitionistic entertainer who likes to write, and who often doesn't have time for anything longer than a one-sentence status update. But I read a lot, too. I keep up with my friends via Facebook, and frequently find both inspiration and encouragement in their postings.
Most recently, one of my friends had a status update that read: "God is in control, whether I try to control things or not." That resonated with me.
I don't consider myself a control freak - far from it! In my life, chaos is the order of the day, and "by the seat of your pants" is the mode of transportation. But I started thinking. Do I try to control things? Well, sure!
I would like to believe I don't try to control the people in my life whom I love, but perhaps I do. My form of aggression has always been passive. I've been known to display a certain attitude for the purpose of eliciting a particular response. Only it doesn't work. Moping around the kitchen and sighing about my lower back pain has never prompted any of my kids to cheerfully pitch in and help with the dishes. Likewise, acting needy and clingy rarely gets me the love and affection that has been my life's greatest unfulfilled need.
It would seem that the old chestnut applies here, that "the definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result". Well, I may be needy, even passive-aggressive, but I'm not mad. So, since the above behaviors aren't working for me, I've tried to find ones that do. My kids are lazy. Unrealistic expectations about their chore-load only results in one frustrated mommy. So I pick one or two things and demand they do them. The rest, I do myself. When I feel like it. After all, they come by their laziness honestly!
As for my emotional need, there is really only one place I can go to get that fulfilled. To my Heavenly Father. It's not fair to pin my earthly happiness on one individual - not to me, and certainly not to the other person. So I go to God. In prayer, and in reading Scripture and devotionals.
And it's a good thing "...that he who began a good work in (me) will carry it through until the day of Christ Jesus." (Phil 1:6) Because I keep trying to take back control. And when I do, I'm thankful He puts a friendly reminder on Facebook, via one of my friends.
God is in control. Whether I try to control things or not. And isn't that a comfort?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Dancing with my girlfriends
We had a Swedish G.N.O. (girls' night out) recently. It involved drinks and girl talk, a nice dinner, and the thing we all love: dancing. There was live music by an excellent rock band that played covers of all our favorite songs, and we hit the dance floor the minute we got there, only taking breaks for a refreshing beverage or two.
I've always loved dancing. As teens, my friends and I would spend hours getting ready for some inane school dance, and that was the fun part: doing each other's hair and makeup, borrowing each other's clothes, talking about boys, and, yes, dancing. We'd pop in the latest mix tape and dance in a circle in the middle of the living room.
Now, a guy friend of mine thinks that this is the most annoying phenomenon ever. He says he hates it when girls in a club only dance with their girlfriends, and turn him down when he asks them to dance, or worse: act annoyed, like he's butting in. My friend is an attractive guy and a decent dancer, so I can certainly validate his frustration. Nobody should be rude.
But the flip side of that coin is this: no woman should stay off the dance floor just because there's no man available to dance with. If the spirit moves you, get out there and dance!
Believe it or not, I was a shy child. I'm not shy anymore, but like any woman, I battle my fair share of insecurities. My butt's too big, and my hair's too stringy. My teeth are crooked and there are lines around my eyes. Just to name a few. But guess what? Shyness and insecurity don't need to stop you from dancing with your girlfriends! After all, if you can't let your (stringy) hair down and let the rhythm move you in the safety of a circle of girlfriends, where on earth can you?
I refuse to be a woman dancing in her chair. I saw many of them at the club, and most of them were with a man. I guess their man didn't want to dance, so the women figured they were stuck to the chair. Their bodies moved to the music, and they longed to be out there on the dance floor. I know, because I've danced in my chair before.
Let me tell you, dancing in your chair is a poor substitute for dancing with your girlfriends. Get out there on the dance floor and take the lead in the musical of your life. Male dance partner welcome, but certainly not required.
I've always loved dancing. As teens, my friends and I would spend hours getting ready for some inane school dance, and that was the fun part: doing each other's hair and makeup, borrowing each other's clothes, talking about boys, and, yes, dancing. We'd pop in the latest mix tape and dance in a circle in the middle of the living room.
Now, a guy friend of mine thinks that this is the most annoying phenomenon ever. He says he hates it when girls in a club only dance with their girlfriends, and turn him down when he asks them to dance, or worse: act annoyed, like he's butting in. My friend is an attractive guy and a decent dancer, so I can certainly validate his frustration. Nobody should be rude.
But the flip side of that coin is this: no woman should stay off the dance floor just because there's no man available to dance with. If the spirit moves you, get out there and dance!
Believe it or not, I was a shy child. I'm not shy anymore, but like any woman, I battle my fair share of insecurities. My butt's too big, and my hair's too stringy. My teeth are crooked and there are lines around my eyes. Just to name a few. But guess what? Shyness and insecurity don't need to stop you from dancing with your girlfriends! After all, if you can't let your (stringy) hair down and let the rhythm move you in the safety of a circle of girlfriends, where on earth can you?
I refuse to be a woman dancing in her chair. I saw many of them at the club, and most of them were with a man. I guess their man didn't want to dance, so the women figured they were stuck to the chair. Their bodies moved to the music, and they longed to be out there on the dance floor. I know, because I've danced in my chair before.
Let me tell you, dancing in your chair is a poor substitute for dancing with your girlfriends. Get out there on the dance floor and take the lead in the musical of your life. Male dance partner welcome, but certainly not required.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Climb (it's not just a Miley Cyrus song)
I hit my Weight Watchers goal today. Actually overshot it by a pound. Which means I've gone from 157 lbs in early June, (the picture above is what I looked like at 157 lbs) to 131 lbs today. 26 lbs in about 7 months. So it seems like a good time to sit back and reflect on this part of the journey. Because believe me, the journey continues!
My first reflection is that it's been pretty easy. Weight Watchers really isn't a diet, it's a lifestyle. And a lot of what I've learned is really simple stuff. Eat fruits and veggies. Drink plenty of liquid. Move your body. Control your portions.
Over these past few months, those guidelines have become habits for me. And so, even when I fall off the wagon, like I did last month, the habits are there, to cushion the blow and lessen the damage. When I choose to eat a candy bar, I'm more apt to make my next food choice a healthy one, than I would be if Weight Watchers were not a part of my life. Like my awesome meeting leader Kathryn always says, "It's about progress, not perfection."
Another simile she used in a meeting was falling down stairs. If you stumble, and fall down a couple of steps, do you then get up, and proceed to throw yourself down the entire staircase? And everybody in the meeting ruefully answered "Yeeess...". I know I've thrown myself down more than one staircase in my life, figuratively speaking.
But so far, I've always eventually picked myself up from the heap at the foot of the stairs, and begun the ascent once again. And in reaching my weight goal, I feel like I've arrived at a landing. I can hang out here for a while - the view's not bad...
Below me is where I've come from. The "fat jeans" that were getting snug on me before I joined WW. The empty bags of candy stashed in drawers and the bottom of the trash. Feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable about my appearance. Feeling tired, listless, and depressed.
I hope I never have to fall down that entire flight of stairs again. Because I don't want to go back there. I don't want to feel that way ever again. Although should I find myself at the bottom of the stairs once more, I know what to to. That's right: start climbing. Because (say it with me, people), it's about progress, not perfection.
While I was climbing this particular flight of stairs, there were times when my Ultimate Weight Goal seemed like the top of the staircase. The brass ring. The finishing line. Now that I'm standing here, I can see that the stairs go on... flights upon flights... kinda like the moving staircases of Hogwarts.
And I'm excited to continue the climb. I know some of the things I'm climbing towards: increased fitness, mainly in the area of core strength and improved muscle tone. Finishing a half marathon. Getting into those hot black leather pants. As well as some things that aren't related to the physical side of me: seeking employment at Weight Watchers, continuing to be a role model for my kids, and striving to create the life for myself and them that I see in my mind's eye.
I am now officially in my six-week maintenance phase of Weight Watchers. I'm sure it'll be an adjustment. After being so intent on losing weight all this time, I now have to focus on NOT losing. I'm going to try to do it by continuing my workouts and increasing my portions slightly. There's going to be a candy bar here and there. But rest assured, I am done with hiding the wrappers!
Monday, January 4, 2010
Falling off the wagon
My brother-in-law Kenny is a recovering alcoholic. He's been sober for a little over 8 years now (his AA birthday is in late September). I have seen Kenny at his worst, and for the last eight years, I've gotten to witness his restoration to a kind, loving man of faith and conviction. He has a self-awareness about him now that I both admire and relate to.
Kenny spent his whole life numbing out. Hiding from life. Running from pain and problems. Making excuses. And then he decided to stop running. Feel his feelings. Deal with his problems. And write his own script for the rest of his life. That doesn't mean he's got a perfect life now - even though he's in a loving relationship and about to become a father for the first time - but it means he's found better ways to deal with the imperfections and frustrations.
Last time I saw Kenny, he was telling me about a situation when he felt frustrated and impatient. And how, now that he's aware of his feelings, he can choose how to react. Kenny chose to calmly suggest a compromise.
I hope Kenny never relapses. But if he does, I know he can get back on the wagon and reclaim his sobriety. Because he KNOWS now. And once you KNOW, once you've learned to look beyond your default behaviors to the underlying emotions and issues, you can't go back to not knowing. And if you know, you have the power to make a choice. The obligation to make a choice. And the awareness that NOT choosing is in itself a choice.
For about three weeks in December, I was off my own wagon. The Weight Watchers, healthy eating, healthy living, exercising wagon. As always, there are underlying issues. There are some major changes about to occur in my life, and I'm scared. And as always, I tend to cover up the underlying issues with superficial issues, like an insanely demanding work schedule, and a trip that took me out of my controlled environment. And as always, I turned to candy and junk food to soothe, destress, and reward myself.
But I'm back on the wagon now. Because I know. And once you know, you have the power.
Kenny spent his whole life numbing out. Hiding from life. Running from pain and problems. Making excuses. And then he decided to stop running. Feel his feelings. Deal with his problems. And write his own script for the rest of his life. That doesn't mean he's got a perfect life now - even though he's in a loving relationship and about to become a father for the first time - but it means he's found better ways to deal with the imperfections and frustrations.
Last time I saw Kenny, he was telling me about a situation when he felt frustrated and impatient. And how, now that he's aware of his feelings, he can choose how to react. Kenny chose to calmly suggest a compromise.
I hope Kenny never relapses. But if he does, I know he can get back on the wagon and reclaim his sobriety. Because he KNOWS now. And once you KNOW, once you've learned to look beyond your default behaviors to the underlying emotions and issues, you can't go back to not knowing. And if you know, you have the power to make a choice. The obligation to make a choice. And the awareness that NOT choosing is in itself a choice.
For about three weeks in December, I was off my own wagon. The Weight Watchers, healthy eating, healthy living, exercising wagon. As always, there are underlying issues. There are some major changes about to occur in my life, and I'm scared. And as always, I tend to cover up the underlying issues with superficial issues, like an insanely demanding work schedule, and a trip that took me out of my controlled environment. And as always, I turned to candy and junk food to soothe, destress, and reward myself.
But I'm back on the wagon now. Because I know. And once you know, you have the power.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
On being a role model
I have a daughter. She is smart, funny, and heartbreakingly beautiful. She turns thirteen this year, but looks and acts like sixteen. A mature, level-headed sixteen. Lately, I've come to realize something I never reflected on before: my daughter cares how I look, dress, and carry myself. My appearance is a reflection on her, in her eyes and in those of her peers.
Parents of teenagers know that they are put on this earth solely to embarrass and mortify their children in public. But if I'm going to embarrass my daughter, let it not be because she's ashamed that I'm overweight, or dressed like a slob.
She hates it when I show up somewhere to pick her up dressed in my work clothes (paint-stained overalls, ditto t-shirt, no makeup, hair in a ponytail under a baseball cap). Sometimes, it can't be helped. We've talked about it, and she understands that I work hard so that she can have and do all the things she has and does. But when I can, and most times I can, I do make an effort to look nice for her. I want her to be proud of me, because I want her to want to be like me.
I have been on this Weight Watchers journey, complete with exercise and other lifestyle changes, for over 7 months now. And I have a feeling this time it's gonna stick. Because I have a young girl watching me, emulating me. She comes with me to the gym. Side by side, we run a 5K on the treadmill, all the while discussing healthy eating habits, fitness goals, and body image.
She watches me control my portions, and keep the fruit bowl full of appealing snack choices. She watches me allow myself treats and indulgences, all balanced by exercise and plenty of sleep. I hope she sees how much better I feel about myself, how much better I feel physically, and how I take pride in what my body can do (like run 10 miles!). I hope she sees that I allow myself the time to work out, the healthy food, and the cute black skinny jeans in a size 4. I'm important to me, is the message I want to send. I'm important to me, and you're important to you. Never let anybody marginalize you, put you down, or tell you what you aren't, can't, or don't deserve.
We've talked about bad habits and self-destructive patterns too. Her father and I were separated for most of 2007. It was a hard year on all of us. My daughter and I both used food as a coping tool. We both gained weight. And she's aware of it, even though she was barely ten years old. I hope that, having come out on the other side, we've both learned something valuable as a result.
Did I mention my daughter is beautiful? And that she looks about sixteen? When she puts on her hiphugger jeans and a low-cut top, it's like a cold hand squeezing my heart. I fear for her, for the power she has, of which she's only just becoming aware. It's a jungle out there, baby girl. How can I prepare you for it?
I don't know for sure, but I think it has to do with confidence. Pride in yourself. Respect for your own body. My daughter is learning all of that. And the thing that humbles me most, is that she's learning it all from me.
Parents of teenagers know that they are put on this earth solely to embarrass and mortify their children in public. But if I'm going to embarrass my daughter, let it not be because she's ashamed that I'm overweight, or dressed like a slob.
She hates it when I show up somewhere to pick her up dressed in my work clothes (paint-stained overalls, ditto t-shirt, no makeup, hair in a ponytail under a baseball cap). Sometimes, it can't be helped. We've talked about it, and she understands that I work hard so that she can have and do all the things she has and does. But when I can, and most times I can, I do make an effort to look nice for her. I want her to be proud of me, because I want her to want to be like me.
I have been on this Weight Watchers journey, complete with exercise and other lifestyle changes, for over 7 months now. And I have a feeling this time it's gonna stick. Because I have a young girl watching me, emulating me. She comes with me to the gym. Side by side, we run a 5K on the treadmill, all the while discussing healthy eating habits, fitness goals, and body image.
She watches me control my portions, and keep the fruit bowl full of appealing snack choices. She watches me allow myself treats and indulgences, all balanced by exercise and plenty of sleep. I hope she sees how much better I feel about myself, how much better I feel physically, and how I take pride in what my body can do (like run 10 miles!). I hope she sees that I allow myself the time to work out, the healthy food, and the cute black skinny jeans in a size 4. I'm important to me, is the message I want to send. I'm important to me, and you're important to you. Never let anybody marginalize you, put you down, or tell you what you aren't, can't, or don't deserve.
We've talked about bad habits and self-destructive patterns too. Her father and I were separated for most of 2007. It was a hard year on all of us. My daughter and I both used food as a coping tool. We both gained weight. And she's aware of it, even though she was barely ten years old. I hope that, having come out on the other side, we've both learned something valuable as a result.
Did I mention my daughter is beautiful? And that she looks about sixteen? When she puts on her hiphugger jeans and a low-cut top, it's like a cold hand squeezing my heart. I fear for her, for the power she has, of which she's only just becoming aware. It's a jungle out there, baby girl. How can I prepare you for it?
I don't know for sure, but I think it has to do with confidence. Pride in yourself. Respect for your own body. My daughter is learning all of that. And the thing that humbles me most, is that she's learning it all from me.
Monday, December 7, 2009
More Backstory
I had a visit from an old neighbor the other night. She is 31 and looks 25. A petite brunette with lovely eyes and a gorgeous smile. We were talking about age, and she said she feels so old now, instead of saying she's 31, she says she's 20-11. Talking about how she felt in her 20s, her face just lit up. She said she felt she could do anything. And I was amazed.
You couldn't pay me enough money to go back and relive my 20s. Sure, there are many milestones and beautiful memories from that decade of my life - that's when I got married and had my three beautiful babies - but what lingers in my heart when I think back to my twenties is just a sense of feeling powerless, invisible, and stuck.
I gained 40 lbs in my first pregnancy. I was 23, a newlywed, living in a foreign country where I didn't have a single friend. Once in a blue moon, the phone would ring for me in our little one-bedroom apartment in Anaheim, CA. And it would be my mother-in-law. God bless her. If it hadn't been for her, I might have gone off the deep end.
Then I had my beautiful boy, and quit my nanny job to stay home and care for him. It was a magical time, just me and my sweet baby, but it just deepened my isolation. My husband would bake scrumptious chocolate-chip cookies, which I would just munch on all day. The big outing of the day was putting baby Joakim in the stroller and walking to the convenience store to buy Sugar Babies. Needless to say, the baby weight did NOT come off.
The following year, we decided to move our little family to Texas. And to try for another baby. My ever-laconic husband figured, since I was still carrying around the extra weight, we might as well go for it. Mattias was born a year later.
When Mattias was a baby, I came in contact with a group of Swedish girls who, like me, had come over to the U.S. as nannies, then stayed and married American men. As you can imagine, we bonded immediately, and so did our husbands. Us girls would get together with our babies and toddlers, and the guys would go out and do their thing.
I wasn't unaware of the stresses my young marriage was under. We were broke, tense, and frustrated, parents of two little boys, with no grandparents around to lean on for support. My husband had told me before we even got married, "Don't you ever get fat, because I hate fat women." Well, as a self-fulfilling prophecy, it worked like a charm...
My husband didn't find me particularly attractive with 20 - 30 extra pounds on my 5'2" frame. He figured, he'd asked me repeatedly to lose weight, so when I didn't, it must be an act of defiance on my part. Because if I truly loved him and wanted him to be happy, I would've just done it, right? He punished me by giving me the cold shoulder in a hundred different ways. And yet, our marriage hobbled along. We went to counseling, things got better, I had lost some weight, and we became the parents of an adorable baby girl, Linnea. Our family was now complete.
My wise friend Carina claims, when you're stressed, your body hangs onto extra weight. I'm sure that's true. I also know that food, and especially candy and sweets, is what I turn to for comfort when I'm depressed and, yes, stressed.
When I turned 30, I was the mother of a six-year-old, a four-year-old, and a one-year-old. I was still overweight and unfit. I never seemed to find any time to work out, or take care of myself in smaller ways. But my husband and I had just bought our first house, and I had set about painting and renovating it. Also, my work as a preschool teacher had allowed me the opportunity to use my creative talents painting murals in some of the classrooms. People were beginning to take notice, and pretty soon I was getting paid paint work on a regular basis.
I figured, in my 30s, things were bound to start looking up.
You couldn't pay me enough money to go back and relive my 20s. Sure, there are many milestones and beautiful memories from that decade of my life - that's when I got married and had my three beautiful babies - but what lingers in my heart when I think back to my twenties is just a sense of feeling powerless, invisible, and stuck.
I gained 40 lbs in my first pregnancy. I was 23, a newlywed, living in a foreign country where I didn't have a single friend. Once in a blue moon, the phone would ring for me in our little one-bedroom apartment in Anaheim, CA. And it would be my mother-in-law. God bless her. If it hadn't been for her, I might have gone off the deep end.
Then I had my beautiful boy, and quit my nanny job to stay home and care for him. It was a magical time, just me and my sweet baby, but it just deepened my isolation. My husband would bake scrumptious chocolate-chip cookies, which I would just munch on all day. The big outing of the day was putting baby Joakim in the stroller and walking to the convenience store to buy Sugar Babies. Needless to say, the baby weight did NOT come off.
The following year, we decided to move our little family to Texas. And to try for another baby. My ever-laconic husband figured, since I was still carrying around the extra weight, we might as well go for it. Mattias was born a year later.
When Mattias was a baby, I came in contact with a group of Swedish girls who, like me, had come over to the U.S. as nannies, then stayed and married American men. As you can imagine, we bonded immediately, and so did our husbands. Us girls would get together with our babies and toddlers, and the guys would go out and do their thing.
I wasn't unaware of the stresses my young marriage was under. We were broke, tense, and frustrated, parents of two little boys, with no grandparents around to lean on for support. My husband had told me before we even got married, "Don't you ever get fat, because I hate fat women." Well, as a self-fulfilling prophecy, it worked like a charm...
My husband didn't find me particularly attractive with 20 - 30 extra pounds on my 5'2" frame. He figured, he'd asked me repeatedly to lose weight, so when I didn't, it must be an act of defiance on my part. Because if I truly loved him and wanted him to be happy, I would've just done it, right? He punished me by giving me the cold shoulder in a hundred different ways. And yet, our marriage hobbled along. We went to counseling, things got better, I had lost some weight, and we became the parents of an adorable baby girl, Linnea. Our family was now complete.
My wise friend Carina claims, when you're stressed, your body hangs onto extra weight. I'm sure that's true. I also know that food, and especially candy and sweets, is what I turn to for comfort when I'm depressed and, yes, stressed.
When I turned 30, I was the mother of a six-year-old, a four-year-old, and a one-year-old. I was still overweight and unfit. I never seemed to find any time to work out, or take care of myself in smaller ways. But my husband and I had just bought our first house, and I had set about painting and renovating it. Also, my work as a preschool teacher had allowed me the opportunity to use my creative talents painting murals in some of the classrooms. People were beginning to take notice, and pretty soon I was getting paid paint work on a regular basis.
I figured, in my 30s, things were bound to start looking up.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The Backstory
I was a chubby baby. My grandmother was from the generation that believed chubby equaled healthy, and skinny equaled sickly, as far as babies were concerned. Consequently, she fed me heavy whipped cream and other rich treats to "fatten me up" until it was practically coming out my ears.
It didn't help that, as a young child, all my favorite activities were of a sedentary nature: coloring, legos, other crafts... As I got older and made friends in the neighborhood, outdoor activities became more important, but my chubbiness nonetheless remained.
I think I was around eight or nine the first time I noticed there were some differences between me and the really popular girls my age. It wasn't about boys (yet) - more like an internal measure of comparison. Not as skinny as, my hair's not as long as, not as pretty as... whomever I chose to compare myself to.
I can't say I let it bother me too much. In the little short stories I'd write, my alter ego was always skinny, with long flowing hair, but in my real life, I was pretty content. Into my teens, I was active in scouting and soccer, had plenty of friends, and boys liked me. I loved candy and sweets, and my mom's cooking, but everything seemed to balance out, and by the time I was in 7th grade, I had pretty much arrived at the body shape I think is natural for me - small on top, but with some "junk in the trunk"...
I lived in that blessedly ignorant world of those who never worry about their weight until I was 19 and living with my boyfriend. Aided by Couple Cooking (those late-night, rich dinners to celebrate that we're in love, special and fabulous) and abetted by unconditional love, I started piling on the pounds. My loving boyfriend lovingly raised some concerns about my health and my future, which I chose to ignore. I was happy. I loved good food. My boyfriend loved me no matter how I looked. What could possibly be the matter?
Looking back, these 20+ years later, I see exactly what was the matter. There is always a "mind" reason when my body changes. That is to say, when I start gaining weight, there is always an emotional issue I'm trying to ignore, suppress with food, numb out from by overeating, distract myself from with sweets and treats.
In this case, it turned out to be the fact that, loving and wonderful as he was, my boyfriend was not right for me, and I was not ready for a serious relationship (at 19 - duh...). I ended up hurting him terribly, and escaped the fallout by moving clear across the world, to Orange County, CA. And to a whole new world of body image issues.
It didn't help that, as a young child, all my favorite activities were of a sedentary nature: coloring, legos, other crafts... As I got older and made friends in the neighborhood, outdoor activities became more important, but my chubbiness nonetheless remained.
I think I was around eight or nine the first time I noticed there were some differences between me and the really popular girls my age. It wasn't about boys (yet) - more like an internal measure of comparison. Not as skinny as, my hair's not as long as, not as pretty as... whomever I chose to compare myself to.
I can't say I let it bother me too much. In the little short stories I'd write, my alter ego was always skinny, with long flowing hair, but in my real life, I was pretty content. Into my teens, I was active in scouting and soccer, had plenty of friends, and boys liked me. I loved candy and sweets, and my mom's cooking, but everything seemed to balance out, and by the time I was in 7th grade, I had pretty much arrived at the body shape I think is natural for me - small on top, but with some "junk in the trunk"...
I lived in that blessedly ignorant world of those who never worry about their weight until I was 19 and living with my boyfriend. Aided by Couple Cooking (those late-night, rich dinners to celebrate that we're in love, special and fabulous) and abetted by unconditional love, I started piling on the pounds. My loving boyfriend lovingly raised some concerns about my health and my future, which I chose to ignore. I was happy. I loved good food. My boyfriend loved me no matter how I looked. What could possibly be the matter?
Looking back, these 20+ years later, I see exactly what was the matter. There is always a "mind" reason when my body changes. That is to say, when I start gaining weight, there is always an emotional issue I'm trying to ignore, suppress with food, numb out from by overeating, distract myself from with sweets and treats.
In this case, it turned out to be the fact that, loving and wonderful as he was, my boyfriend was not right for me, and I was not ready for a serious relationship (at 19 - duh...). I ended up hurting him terribly, and escaped the fallout by moving clear across the world, to Orange County, CA. And to a whole new world of body image issues.
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