Where’s the Starving Fat Lady?

I want to jump into where I’ve been and what I have been doing and the reason for my absence quickly. So let’s begin.

Depression is nasty. It debilitates you and leaves you numb, causing you to separate yourself from life, family, and friends.  The devil entered my life at a point where I felt weak and vulnerable and he used that to scratch his own itch. It can last days or months; in my case, months. You are able to function at some small level but anything after that takes energy you don’t have. Reaching out for help is out of the question but I’ve been blessed to have friends and family who give me my space and time to heal. For that, thank you.

Time for the big news! Thanks to all of your comments, feedback and positive prayers, I have decided that I want to share my story with the world. I am writing a book! My own little autobiography. When you read my blogs (and book) I want you to be able to say, “Me too!” You are not alone in the struggle and the struggle IS real! The book is titled, “The Starving Fat Lady – Binge eating, abuse, and mental illness.” I’ve been working on the first chapter these last few months and am hoping to have it proofread and finished in another few weeks. I have years of work to do but it will be worth it to have my readers know they are not alone.  When I think about being isolated, I sometimes think about grade school. It seemed I always befriended the outcasts, the rejects, the mess. Or maybe it was the other way around. They accepted me. I, too, was the outcast, the reject, the mess. Either way I met and know some extraordinary people! Those that knew I was worthy and believed in what I did, even if I failed, thank you!!

I leave you today, with this: You will get better. With time and support, life does open up and bring you sunshine and rainbows. Sometimes it seems the darkness will never go away but trust me when I say, it goes away.  Thank you to those hanging in there with me and putting up with my bouts of depression. I can’t express to you just how much it means to me.

Much love,

The Starving Fat Lady

 

 

Two Pieces of Clothing and The Devil Himself

It starts in the dressing room and two pieces of clothing…

I slide my shirt over my head and pull it down over my curves. Wait. This is a T-SHIRT, right? I take it off and look at the size. XXL. How the hell is it so short? They are charging $2 extra for plus size yet they forgot to somehow sew the bottom half of the shirt on! The pants are next. I slip those over my thighs and pull up over my stomach. High-waters. How is this possible? I haven’t grown. Well. Maybe I have. Around but not up! This is impossible. I leave the dressing room and angrily hand my clothes to the attendant. I’m angry at myself for not being able to fit into simple clothes. I’m angry because they want to charge me more for plus-size clothing but not give me enough clothing to wear! And I’m angry that I’ve done nothing to fix it.

I admit that I’m the most contradictive person alive. I complain that I want to fix it, yet do nothing about it. I give advice to others, but don’t practice it myself. I’m safe here. You will hear me refer to my obesity and addiction to food as the devil. It’s a mental fight I have daily and that fight is visualized as cruel, dark, lonely, hurtful, sad… the dark list goes on. The push-pull of the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other. I share this with you not to make you sad or feel empathy for me. I share it because sometimes I struggle with the darkness and I want others, perhaps you dear reader, to know……you are NOT alone.

As I’ve become older, I’m at a point in my life, that I’m learning to come to terms with obesity. Accepting it. Feeling safe with it. It is what it is, so to speak. Obesity gives me security. Losing weight would only put myself out there to predators so I’m safe being fat. No one wants a starving fat lady.

 

 

Dear Diary…

February 1990
Dear Diary,

Totally fell for this boy. I mean hard. I know I’m only 13 but he’s super cute and super nice. He smokes but I’m okay with it because I smoke too! Hopefully mom and dad don’t find out. Keep it under lock and key, diary, okay?


March 1990
Dear Diary,

I can’t believe it!! We kissed for the first time! My stomach was in knots and I was afraid he was going to want more but he didn’t! Hate how he always talks about other girls though. He’s talks to one girl and I can’t stand her. Her blush is as thick as molasses! Gag!


July 1990
Dear Diary,

I was so stupid. Why did I tell him how I feel? My heart is broken! He told my best friend, Allie that I wouldn’t “put out” so he was going to go out with red molasses face! Oooo I’m so mad!


July 1990
Dear Diary,

Just got back from school. HE CALLED ME FAT!!! He told his friend and he told Allie who also told Stephanie, which by the way I am so ticked off at, that I was fat. Yeah? Well let me know what molasses face really looks like when she scraps off her makeup!


September 1990
Dear Diary,

Totally fell for this boy. I mean hard. I know I’m only 13 but he’s super cute and super nice……..

 

This blog was created by the 13 year old in me. This is a true story with as much detail as I can remember. I think sometimes we just need a reminder that as children, we so easily move on from some of the disappointments and heartbreak we experience in life. But in adulthood we seem to grasp onto the negative and forget the positive. When did we let that go and why? So remember this: Why worry about what you can’t fix in this very moment? Try not to lose focus on something that’s out of your control. Your bills, your kid smoking pot, your car breaking down, getting to an appointment late. whatever it may be…..embrace that moment, breathe, gather yourself, and hit that sucker tomorrow. You got this.

bring it

Losing Weight Is More Than Being Healthy

First and foremost, let me apologize to you, my readers. I took a last-minute trip out-of-town and didn’t prepare to stay as long, thus missing a blog. So let’s get this started shall we? 

 

“Tonia. Are you paying attention?” I snap to. I look at my doctor blankly. “Could I really lose my feet?” He looks at me seriously, “Yeah. You could lose toes, feet, legs. Your life. This is your life. Do you want to live it?” I sigh and start to think about what he just said. He leaves me to type out my release paperwork and I take that opportunity to reflect back to a few words my ears picked up on. “Your life. Losing limbs. Heart disease. Life. Living. Death.” My anxiety starts to rise and I can feel panic settling in.

If I don’t think about it, it doesn’t exist right? I live with the, “It won’t be me. It happens to others,” mentality. Not to mention only my health but also the way I feel. It’s almost normal for me to feel like crap. I don’t know what it feels like to be healthy. Let’s talk about the emotional toll it takes when you go shopping or out to eat or anywhere in public for that matter! When you sit down do you pull your shirt out from your belly area? Do you pray that the cheap plastic chair you’re about to sit in, doesn’t break? Does it raise your anxiety a bit to find out that the restaurant you are going to may only have tables you can’t fit into? And clothing! I haven’t shopped in forever. It’s sort of hard to when nothing fits right. What I do have, I try to squeeze into as much as possible. Here’s an example:

My jeans are just about too tight. I know this because instead of jumping up and down to get them on and zipped, I now have to lay on the bed and zip them. Getting up requires some assistance but the job is successful! There’s no way I can sit because my body won’t fold that way but my jeans are on!! I head out to my meeting. At the conference center I’m having serious apparel malfunction. My zipper won’t stay up! What if my button goes flying across the room, hitting someone in the eye, causing them to go permanently blind and me on their mind for the rest of their lives as, “the fat girl who wore the tight jeans made me go blind.” I realize I may be over thinking but this is embarrassing. This thought sends my mind racing and I have to get out! I have to get out of this room. I finally rise and all eyes are now on me. “Excuse me for a few moments, please.” I dart out of the room, catching my breath outside the door. FAT!!  Think I’ll skip the rest of the meeting and head to the store and see if their donuts are still fresh. Screw it. After buying my shame, I get into the car, unzip my pants and breathe. The best taste of freedom and donut….ever!!

Losing weight is not just about feeling good in your own skin. It’s about being able to enjoy life around you. The simple things like walking to the park, not worrying about fitting into booths and chairs. The freedom to buy clothing that LOOKS good and not just buying it because it fits. It’s also about being healthy. My doctor is right. Bad things can happen to anyone if the problem is not taken care of. Maybe one day I will listen. Hopefully before it’s too late.

 

Preparing To Die

GR

 

I wake up from a restless sleep struggling to breathe. I get up to use the restroom and decide that I should take a shower. You know, just in case the paramedics have to come. I want to be sure I’m clean before they have to revive me. I put pills on my night stand so they know what I’ve taken before I went to bed. I have a sticky note on my phone that shows all medications and allergies as well as emergency contacts. I lotion up and head back to bed, making sure there are no obstacles in the way of the door so that people have easy access to me in a hurry.

Weak hearts run in my family. That extra pound in my chest could be a stroke coming on. Is that tingling in my left hand neuropathy or am I getting ready to stroke out? When I feel dizzy or anxious I think, “Is this it? Is this what’s going to kill me?” Living like this takes away life outside of preparing to die. As sick as it is, I’m ready because I’ve prepared.

What breaks my heart the most is that my kids will check in on me if I’m sleeping too long. Especially my oldest. She comes peeking in the room and I hear, “Mom. You up?” I answer back, “Yes. Just tired.” I hear her exhale heavily and I know that my response put her at ease. Why do I put them through that? How scary their lives must be worrying about their mom’s health. It makes me angry that I’m so selfish.

And the question I have been asking since starting this blog is, “Is that enough to change?” Is it enough that my kids and family worry? Is it enough that my health is declining? That answer…no. It’s this crazy mind fuck game that continues to rule over my life. When I see food that I shouldn’t have and I walk away, I feel as though I’ve lost my best friend. I have literally sat and cried over it. Food is something that will always be there, in my face, tempting me with smells and sights. It’s my devil. It lingers over me like death. My grim reaper.

 

Living With Anxiety

I get in my car and drive to the store. As I open the car door, my heart starts to pound heavily. I look at the people walking in and out and I start to slowly skip breaths.  I dart my eyes around the parking lot as I head in and see several people sitting in their cars, no doubt waiting for a spouse or friend to do their shopping but staring at me as I walk in. The double doors slide open bringing a smell of deli food and bread.

Is that person staring at me?
Did those girls just laugh?
I swear everyone is judging me.
Did that person just look at me twice?
Oh God. I gotta get out of here.

I divert my attention to my phone. If I can’t see anyone, then I can’t see them staring. I grab my items and quickly leave. I get to the car out of breath and nearly in tears. Panic is setting in. I can’t breathe. My finger tips are tingling. There is a huge weight on my chest that is stopping me from breathing.  I’m going to have a heart attack and die right here. Everyone will see it. Will the paramedics know to call my family? People are staring.  My vision starts to blur. I’m dying.

After 20 minutes, the Clonidine taken earlier, kicks in. I start to relax and forget those around me. I start the car and drive home. I feel angry at myself for losing control emotionally and for not holding it together. Even if I  did make it home alive with my groceries.

Anxiety and panic is real. It’s debilitating. It can be triggered by anything. We can’t ask the world around us to change therefore, it’s up to the person with the disorder to learn how to cope.  I’m still learning and I’ve made huge strides. I wrote this blog in hopes that people know that others do understand what you are going through. I want you to know you’re not alone…even if it seems like the loneliest place in the world.

 

 

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.”

Portion Out of Control

If two heads are better than one, then what about double chins? On that note, I will help myself to seconds.” 
― Jarod KintzThis Book is Not FOR SALE

I’m such a bread whore. There’s something about walking through a bakery that leaves me excited and tingly. The smell kisses my lips and leaves me wanting more. The warmth whispers in my ear and entices me to try a sample. It’s heat sending shivers through my body. The softness wraps around my body and squeezes gently leaving me toasty inside. Ah. Food Porn.

Going to the gym today. I am totally going! Don’t look at me like that. I’m really going! Where are my shoes? Where’s my gym bag? Damn it! Keys?? Forget it. Just getting out of the house is too much of a hassle. Besides, looking for all those missing assholes gave me my own workout. Tomorrow. Yes. Definitely tomorrow.

I swear it only took a week to gain 100 pounds. It’s going to take the next 100 years to lose it. I can look at a candy bar and gain 50 pounds. I hear myself getting fatter staring at the yellow packaging on the Butterfinger. If it’s in ONE package together, that’s ONE serving size right? So king-sized is a perfect portion for me. This is my belief and I’m sticking to it. I’ve come to a point where it’s like, “Eh, I’m already this big. What’s this ONE piece of cake going to hurt?” Before I know it, that sucker is gone and I’m a cave woman on the hunt for more.

phil

My stoic expression seeps through my face as I blink at my nutritionist. She hands me a pie chart. Mmm, pie. “As you can see here, this is the portion size that is considered the normal portion size to maintain a good weight,” she says, trying to convince me that what she’s saying makes sense. She’s a tiny, little thing and as I’m sitting next to her, the room seems to get smaller. “Look, I appreciate what you’re saying but I don’t think this is the correct portion size for a 400 hundred pound woman. I mean, could you imagine if I tried to eat protein the size of my fist?” She stares back at me with a smile and nods.  “Yes. You’d lose weight.” She’s trying to be nice, bless her heart but I am over this conversation and am looking at the door wondering if I’m quick enough to make a break for it. If only I had gone to the gym, I’d be fast enough to make the exit before she could say portion size.

 

Carnival Ride To Nowhere

“It seems like you may be an emotional eater.” I stare back at my therapist blinking rapidly, thinking about him sitting at a desk in college taking notes on paper instead of an electronic device. He seems totally outdated. He’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong, I just don’t think he quite gets food addiction.

Way back when my grandparents were growing up, everything came from their OWN fields and hen houses. Now, it seems like everything is genetically modified. Sprayed chemicals on our fruit and veggies to help them grow faster and larger. Hormone injections are put into our cattle so that they grow faster and larger. Anything to feed our hungry and obese. I am the starving fat lady. God knows I need my over-sized burger and gigantic fruit!

So perhaps it isn’t the food itself we are addicted to. Like a heroin addict during withdrawal we are addicted to the chemical. It leaves us wanting more. It tickles our insides when we finally have it. Add a dash of convenience to the mix and you’ve got a hot ass addiction. We try to do good. I know I do. I can’t count how many diets and life change rodeos I’ve been to. Just eat better and exercise. Oh, that’s it? Thank God you’re here to tell me that. What a break through! meme Can you imagine if I tried to exercise all the calories I consumed? There aren’t enough hours in the day OR night to burn those suckers off.

My shame is unlimited. I walk into a restaurant and the first thing I look for is whether or not the booth tables are movable. Before going to an unfamiliar movie theater I call ahead to be sure their seats are large enough. Carnival rides? Forget about it. Being overweight you are constantly reminded just how fat you are. Every where I go I have to think about my weight. Can I walk that far? Can I fit? Will I be looked at and judged?

So do something about it! *nods at the stupidity of that statement* You know those little excited wind-up toys? You wind it up until it takes off real fast and then eventually it burns out and slowly winds down until you crank it up again. Well, that’s my “doing something about it.” I start out excited and ready to go. I take off! Full steam ahead! Then, I start to wind down. I no longer have the energy or care to try and I am back where I started until something else comes along to wind me up again. The roller coaster is unreal. All I know is, I want off this damn ride. Get me back to the concession stand. I’m starving.

cake

 

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.