Obesity and It’s Silent Struggle

C and T

Myself and Christina

Christina and I hit it off quickly when I first met my father and his family. She was my sister, not by blood, but by soul. We had a lot in common, including our obesity.

Let me take you back to the 90s.

We tore up the city of Wenatchee, Washington and Dallas, Oregon. I can’t count how many apple orchards we woke up in after a long night of partying.  She quickly became my best friend. We did everything together. She knew secrets about me no one else did and I knew the same about her.

One evening she came home and says, “Tonia, there’s this guy who just broke up with his girlfriend who I know and now he’s single. His name’s Jose.” Now, I’ve always liked my men spicy so of course most of their names were Jose. Ha! I yell from the other room, “Does he have brothers named Pedro and Raul?” Laughter erupted from the both of us. Later, I became pregnant with my first child. Four months in, I lost him. My sister was there the entire way. She always had my back. Always.

I moved back to Montana (a few times) and when I did, Christina and I lost contact. We chatted here and there on Facebook but made no plans to meet up again. The excuses we made were silent but clear; we both had families and not enough time.

I get the text. She’s not doing well. Her kidneys are shutting down. No one knows how much longer she has. I later found out that she had lost her leg, the result of diabetes. She was told, while coherent, that she was dying.  I spoke to her on the phone and all we could do was cry through words. I asked her why she didn’t tell me that complications from her weight were this bad. She cried back, “I didn’t want you to know.” I got that. I really did. Secrets. Nasty secrets. She made it clear that she didn’t want to die and was very worried about her 4 children. I told her I loved her and would be seeing her soon. That night, I packed a suitcase and headed to Oregon. I arrived at the hospital late in the evening. Seeing her in that hospital bed was nearly unbearable until I approached her bedside and saw her grey, soulless eyes. I grabbed her face and wanted to kiss her badly but she had patches of some sort of medicine pasted to her. She was wailing in pain. I have to tell you, the sound of her still haunts my memories. Crying, I told her over and over again that I loved her. That she was my best friend. My only friend. She passed away March 7, 2014.

I went back to the hotel and cried uncontrollably. I was sorry and pissed off at myself for not being there for her. If only we had both been honest about our weight and our struggles. What we were going through was nearly identical. As I watched her dying I thought, “Is this it? Is this what it’s going to take for me to make the change?” Sadly, it was not. I continued to eat. I continued to not treat my diabetes. Being overweight and struggling with your weight is real. Food addiction is more than just overeating. It’s eating away your secrets, your stress, your pain, and worries. Ironically, it’s a way to slowly kill yourself and sometimes nothing, not your kids, not your family or friends, is enough to stop the madness. Rest in peace, my dear sister.

 

20150504_120105

C

Taking Back Control

You’re not alone. A lot of people have a hard time opening up. I mean, who wants to put their business out there? I was scared to first start this blog. Who would judge me? Who would say things behind my back? Who would leave nasty comments and try to discourage me? Amazingly, putting my business out there has helped me begin the healing process. I can say will all honesty that writing my life to you has slowly helped me open up and be honest with myself.

My sweet reader, I know this is something you can do too. It’s scary, embarrassing, unknown and unfamiliar but it’s also liberating! I’m trying not to worry about what people think of me. I’m me. Love me or hate me. The choice is yours. I’m taking back control. No one is allowed to damage me, control me, or deceive me any longer. Repeat after me, “I’m taking back control.” Close your eyes and repeat it once more. Go ahead. I’ll wait. Makes you feel just a bit more free, doesn’t it?

Many of my readers have sent messages of encouragement and inspiration. It makes me feel so good that I want to pay that forward to you. I want you to know that a complete stranger cares about you. A complete stranger gets you and understands your pain. Healing is a day by day process. Today, take back control. Tomorrow you may feel different and that’s OK. Really. By the way, why is it that we don’t give ourselves the credit of the good things we do. We beat ourselves up because we’re supposed to fit society’s “normal.” We are expected to be skinny, successful, happy….perfect. Well f*** that! I’m me. Get over it. Some of my closest friends are not skinny, successful, or happy. I love them for that. It’s like, “Finally!! People like me!” 

Be crazy. Be loud. Be happy. Be over the top. Be dramatic. Just be you…

Check out the video below. Really think about how these things make you feel. I bet by the end of the video, you’re smiling.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPmA6W-WD90

The Devil’s Hold

god and food

The smell of seasoned steak over an open fire, teasing your senses with a longing for more. The taste of a warm cookie fresh from the oven. The melted chocolate kisses your lips and caresses your palate. The feel of a warm croissant on a cold day cupped in your hands ever so gently. Opening it’s buttery layers one piece at a time. Hungry?

This is my food addiction. Sensual, sexual, romantic, food addiction. It’s a relationship that is hard to let go. I mean, let’s face it, you HAVE to have food to live. There is, however, an ugly side. It’s killing me. Slowly, it wraps the rope around my neck and lowers me enough to gasp for air but not enough to completely shut me down. It slowly raises me back up with the alluring taste, texture and touch of its beautiful ugliness.

Food, I refer to as the devil, will over power you and convince you that you’re not full. It plays with your mind until you can no longer hold on. You give into seconds and thirds and before you know it, you’re snacking at midnight and crying at 2 a.m. Because you’re now sad, you open your night stand drawer and reveal your secret. Your eyes widen and your mouth waters. You open it and eat your divine treat until your tears dry up and relief kicks in. Then shame. Shame that you must have a secret to begin with. Shame that you have to hide it because it’s yours and no one else will understand. Shame because it’s now 3 a.m. and embarrassing enough, you want more.

You weigh yourself and become sad AND pissed off that you gained weight. The scales flashes your numbers back at you as if to scream, “You fatass! Look what you did!” You look down wondering how the hell it happened. Promising that you’ll never eat like that again, you head to the kitchen. You open the fridge. The cupboards. The hiding spots. Back to the fridge. The devil is toying with you. Convincing you that there’s food to satisfy your desire. You leave the kitchen and try to get your mind on something else. No matter how much you try, craving, boredom, and a sense of needing to feel satisfied overtakes you. This revolving door leads no where and you know it but it’s not enough to stop you. Addiction. A nasty vicious cycle that hates you but that you love more than anything.

Disease has finally caught up. Diabetes, sleep apnea, joint pain, trouble breathing, high blood pressure, peripheral neuropathy. The devil smiles, “Come here, I will take care of you. Everything will feel better. All you need is this large plate of carbohydrates and fat. Remember, you need me to live.” You feel alone in your darkness but food is there to help ignite a passion in you that no one and nothing else can. The devil steps back with a low laugh and whispers, “Eat.”

Survivor of Sexual Abuse

I smell propane. I see the pea green shag carpet. It reeks in here. I climb up the small camper stairs and into hell. I know he’s there. I know he approached my mother asking if I could come to his camper to help him clean. Why would she let a young kid come help this dirty, selfish, disgusting, devil? Help me.

This has been going on for years. Too many years. God, why so many? He used to come over late at night when both my parents were gone. Sit on the couch with me and “help” me with my scholastic while his hand fondled my breasts. I don’t remember anything past that. I don’t remember him leaving. That bothers me. It’s hard for me to make it make sense to anyone when I don’t remember all the details. All I remember is that….something happened. It’s more a feeling than it is a vision. Many years later, he was charged with sexually assaulting a handicapped, wheel-chair bound woman. Guilt still lives within me.

Reminisce with me. I’m five. I had a little friend in the trailer court we lived in. She was my only friend there and I adored her. She was raised by her father and I’m not sure where her mother was. One day, her father took me to the back of his trailer. There, he pulled down his sweat pants and showed me his penis. Remember, I was five. Tall enough to be face to penis. Darkness. I remember nothing from that point on. What happened? Years later this friend magically shows up in high school. The last time I saw her we were both six years old.  I approached her excitedly one day in the cafeteria. “Hey, (name)! How are you? I haven’t seen you in years!” Her reply still bothers me today. “Stay away from me, Tonia and don’t talk to me again” After that, I never saw her in school again. That reply left me with more questions than ever. Why would she not want to talk to me? We were best friends so many years ago and I don’t remember leaving on a bad note. What the hell happened?!

At 13 I was already out of control and a major pain in my mother’s ass. She sent me to group counseling with teens that were “just like me.” The groups were mixed with boys and girls and to this day I have no idea why, since a lot of us spoke about our past sexual secrets. After group, we would sit in the back yard while waiting for our parents to pick us up. One boy sat with me in the backyard. We talked for a few minutes then out of no where, he grabs my breast and runs. I had no idea what the hell to think. Another person saw what happened and reported it to one of the counselors. Before I know it, I am in a room with my mother, counselor, and two other adults. They were apologizing for what happened. I don’t remember too much of the conversation but they kept telling me how it was wrong and that they were going to change the way things happened there. Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal to me for whatever reason. I can’t even tell you why I felt that way.

Years of therapy and counseling have not brought out what happened to me as a child. These are only few of the instances I remember the most of. There are several over the years but I’m not able to lay them out to make sense. What I have learned is, it’s not OK. This is my body and no one is allowed to touch it unless I say it’s OK. I write these blogs in hopes that many of my readers can relate and perhaps heal with me. If you are being abused, speak out! I wish I would have. Perhaps I would feel a better sense of relief knowing that they weren’t doing it to anyone else. You too can take back control.

Need help?
Call 800.656.HOPE (4673) to be connected with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area.

Black and White Part 2

He’s been in jail 4 months. Now there’s no income. The cable is the first to go. Then the power. Then the food. This is all my fault…

I’ve made very few friends in the three years I’ve lived here. I break down and ask for their help. They bring over a few things to make sandwiches but I know they’re having struggles of their own. I feed my kids and go without because I’m not sure when we will get food again. Forget asking the neighbors. They hate me anyways. They’ve made that perfectly clear with the rocks thrown at my screen door and the yells of “cracker,” “honky,” and my personal favorite, “white bitch.”

From the dark living room, I hear my kids going through the Sunday newspaper that I took from the broken newspaper box. I hear my son exclaim, “Oooh I want that! And that one! Oh my God that one looks really good!” I walk towards them to see what they’re reading. “You can have that one. I will have these three.” I see little bodies lying on the floor, faces illuminated by a flashlight. His precious, short, little, five-year-old fingers touch the pictures of burgers and fries. “Sunday newspaper ads always seem to have the best deals and coupons on fast food,” I sadly think to myself. I turn my head and begin to cry. I’ve done this to them out of my own selfishness. What kind of mother am I?

I have GOT to fucking do something! I walk through the projects to get to the only payphone. There are young black men everywhere. Standing around as if waiting for a taxi. I hear, “You straight?” “Hey sweetheart, you straight?” Lingo for, “are you looking to score drugs?” NO MOTHERFUCKER I’M NOT STRAIGHT! My rent is due. My power is off and my kids are hungry. You gonna fix THAT? Ignorant. I reach the payphone after weeding through the drug dealers only to have a dozen more at the barbershop asking me the same question. I break down and call mom. She’s my only hope. I beg her to send money. Just a bit for the kids to eat. “I’m broke too, Tonia. There is no way I can send money right now.” I’m every emotion possible. All at the same time. I’m losing it.

There’s another shooting. This time, a prostitute was left in the bushes next to our apartment complex to die, naked and humiliated. There’s a backwoods club down a dirt road about 150 yards from the complex. I stay indoors when the club is open because there’s no way I’m letting anyone know a white “bitch” lives here. One night, shots rang out and four policemen….FOUR policemen show up. There are hundreds of people swarming the streets. I watch from my second story window. The police are outnumbered. What the hell can they do? I feel so safe. *insert sarcasm and hopelessness*

The police are no better than the drug dealers. Example, the neighbor’s son got pulled over with three pounds of marijuana in his trunk. When he went to court the judge told him he was being charged with two pounds. Now you tell me, what the hell happened to it and are you going to argue? I was pulled over on my way to work. I received a ticket for no proof of insurance while driving my cute, little ford focus, didn’t pay for it and didn’t appear in court. I was arrested and taken to jail. On the way there, the officer says, “You smell great. Don’t worry about Hall County Detention. Those officers like pretty girls and are usually pretty lenient.”  Think someone would believe me if I told? Do you believe it? I know I didn’t but that’s the way it went down. The feeling of helplessness and defeat will overtake everything innocent that you believe in.

Tonia

My husband was finally released after 8 months. The power came back on, the fridge was full, and the kids were happy. Life went on but we were never the same. After spending 5 years in the projects, I had had enough. I moved back home to Montana with the kids and left him in Georgia.

Georgia left me hateful and blind and I couldn’t stand how that made me feel. I learned to hate because I was hated.  Eventually, I moved on and learned that things didn’t have to be that way. The world was full of color and flavor and it was up to me to reach out and taste it. When will racism, poverty, hate crimes, and general judgement cease?  It’s up to you, my dear readers. The world is not always……..black and white.

Black and White Part 1

The year is 1999. My then husband moved to Georgia with our two oldest kids to search for work. My youngest stayed with me. He calls from Georgia a few months later and tells me to come down. I pack up and move all that I know trusting that he would provide and take care of us in this new and unfamiliar world.

Just a few short months later we were broke and living In Gainesville Housing Authority AKA, The Projects. There are large apartment complexes made of brick with bars on the windows. Shortly after moving in, I get a taste of reality. I hear my son yelling for someone to get off him. I rush outside and another boy is straddling my son punching him repeatedly. I pull him off and yell, “Where is your momma?!” I large, boisterous, black woman steps out of an adjacent apartment and yells back, “I’M HIS MOMMA!” I turn and walk toward her to speak to her about what just transpired between my son and hers. She tells me, “Don’t come any closer. Keep your white ass and your wet-back over there.” I feel blood rush up from my feet to my face. My hands clench into fists. I go to open my mouth but start to notice a group of people gather to watch me get my ass beat. I grab my “wet-back” and head back into the house. I sat there on my poor over-used, flowered-upholstered couch and cried.


My husband bought me a car! I cute little white ford focus. It’s our first “brand new” car. The payments are a bit high for our income but it’s OURS! One day, I pack up my daughter to take her to get immunizations. As I head to the car, I notice black coloring on the doors. I get closer and read in bold, dark black, spray paint “white bitch.” Who would do this?! I feel SO helpless. Relentlessly, I get in and drive to our appointment. There’s no point in calling the police. I have no proof of who did it. I have no money to fix this. I have no other choice but to return the car and continue making payments. I call the housing department and tell them to move me somewhere else. One week later, another apartment opened up in the back-end of the projects. I jump on it!

January 2nd, Sunday. A day I’ll never forget. Someone knocks on my door. When I open it, a smaller, somewhat chubby girl, was standing there before me. She smiles slightly and says, “I just want to tell you that your husband and I are sleeping together.” I slam open the screen door, pushing her back. I tower over her. “You sure it’s MY husband?!” As soon as she says his name, I want to punch her in the face. Instead, I tell her to get the hell off my porch! I want to go to his work and rip his face off. He best feel lucky I don’t have any money for the transit. I do the next best thing. I grab a pair of scissors, go upstairs, and slice his clothes. One thing I can say about my husband is he likes to dress and look nice. After carving up his preciousness, I light a joint and smoke through an entire pack of cigarettes. I hear the key in the door. I get up and stand near it. As he enters, I smack him along side the head. He didn’t even see it coming. HA! I smack him again. This time he raises his arm up and yells at me. “What the hell are you doing?!” “No sweetheart, what the hell are YOU doing? Who the fuck is (I say her name)?” I’ve never seen a Mexican look so white. “I want you to go upstairs, get your shit and get the hell out of my house!” What can he say? He heads up to grab his cut up clothing, cursing in Spanish when he finds the destruction. He comes down and heads for the door. As he does, I bring my leg up to literally kick him out. He falls forward and immediately turns back towards me. He comes at me full force, punching me straight in the face. I feel blood rolling down into my mouth. We fight back and forth for what seemed like hours but must have been mere minutes. I see police lights. I stop swinging and go into actress mode. I’m the poor, defeated, beaten wife. He was arrested and taken to jail on a felony domestic violence charge. I’d like to thank the academy. At least I know he’ll be in a jail bed and not hers.

To be continued…

My Safety Shell

Oh Tonia! You are so pretty. I look down at the floor as if to feel ashamed. “Thank you,” I say politely. You know those kids, teens, and adults that model clothing sales in your local ads? Well, one of them was me. I remember the embarrassment when one of the women said, “This is for maternity. Let’s stuff this pillow in.” Looking back now, she was paying me a compliment without knowing.

I married years later, popped out a few kids, and got comfortable enough in my relationship to no longer care what my body looked like. The compliments dwindled down to “Oh Tonia! You have such a pretty face.”

A few more years later and I gain even more weight. The compliments have ceased and I take a breath of relief. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate the feedback people gave me. I truly did because they didn’t have to say anything at all. But I cringed inside when I heard them. “What do you want from me?” “You are JUST being polite and don’t really mean that.” Inside I feel my gut turn and my heart race. It takes everything I have not to scream out, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” But that wouldn’t be very lady-like of me, now would it?

Perhaps it was the conditioning and abuse. Years of molestation by many different people damaged me beyond belief. I was tainted. I was dirty. I was no longer whole. I kept my secret for many years. It ate at me like a worm to an apple. It took over my core and left me feeling bitter, angry, and unsure. To hear someone compliment me on my looks made me cringe and I have my abusers to thank for that. When I finally did tell a family member they scolded me for not telling sooner. What the fuck did you want me to do when I didn’t trust anyone? The adults in my life betrayed me and I was taught to respect them. Thank you sexual molesters for ruining my life, oh by the way, here is your dosage of respect. It was much easier to just get fat. It has become my shell and well, I’m comfortable here.

I will definitely cover more of this later. But for right now, leave me to my donuts of despair.

Room Without A View Continued…

We line up for chow in pairs of two. I hear one girl ask another, “Want to be my two?” I move to the back of the line since that’s where the lonely “one” goes. In two weeks I’ve made just a few friends. I’m in what they call the “Cottonwood” cottage. There is a “prison shower” which is a large room with multiple shower heads. There’s a living area where there’s a TV, tables, chairs, and puzzles. The walls are nothing but square bricks painted white. The office is a bubble of glass, brick, and one door that always remains locked. Then of course there are our cells. Two more weeks. I can do this.

The sight of that state car never looked more sweet. This time nutcase must have stayed in her nut tree because it was a handsome young man that made the drive back home more enjoyable. You’d think that it’d be amazing to be home after being away for that long. But alas, it’s just like old times with mom driving the control boat and me trying to jump off without a life vest. I run. I run. And I run like hell. I run to alcohol and drugs. I run from the law. I run to every boy who is willing to give me the attention I crave. I run in a stolen car. I start fights with anyone and everyone who tried to take away the control I thought I had on my own life. Truth is, I was totally out of control.

Red, white, and blue stands for freedom so why is it that I’m locked up again? The judge gazes at me over her glasses. “Eighteen months in Mountain View School for Girls to run consecutively. Defendant is to maintain counseling and drug and alcohol treatment. And Tonia? I really hope you’re able to turn your life around. If you choose not to, you’ll be 18 soon and I will have no other choice but to send you to adult prison. Have a nice day.” SMACK goes the gavel.

I return to see old faces. Name calling and glares have been replaced with hugs and welcome backs. Perhaps last time the girls were trying to scare me straight on my 45? It was however, their home and I was just a visitor at the time.  What they don’t know is that I was lured back. Lured by a feeling of love, acceptance, and of being wanted. Some of these girls had been beaten, abused, raped, molested, and left to the world to survive on their own. They were only teenagers.

I was allowed to work in the cafeteria. It got me out of my cell and I moved up into one of the top cottages for good behavior. I learned how to cook and serve at least a hundred girls and staff. It was nice to have responsibility. The girls really became some of my closest friends. I had affairs with a few but after realizing relationships with girls cause way too many dramatic issues, I was done. After 18 months, I was released into a group home. Then a foster home. I was bounced around between five foster and group homes for what seemed like eternity.  I was able to complete drug and alcohol counseling and maintain a job that paid off all of my restitution to the state and the victims of my crimes. I was ready for 18 in two months and I sure as hell wasn’t going to see that judge as an adult.

“Tonia, you are now released from state custody. You are no longer a ward of the state under the juvenile statute.” The judge again peers over her glasses. Doesn’t she have some that fit?! “I hope you take this as an opportunity to grow and learn. I wish you the best. I don’t ever want to see you in my courtroom again.” The SMACK of the gavel no longer holds fear. It now holds freedom.