If I had to choose only one theme in the story of my life it would be my struggle with my weight. From the age of 7, not a single day of my life has passed without my thinking about my weight or my size. It has consumed my life and quite often my chance at happiness.

I’ve shared a lot of that struggle in this space over the last several years but I’m not sure I’ve ever really chronicled it like this. Over the next several days, I will share here the history and possibly some of the psychology of this personal challenge as well as my fears about passing it along to my children.

And there will be some pictures too.

I have struggled with my weight for…forever, it seems.  When I was my oldest son’s age I was built just like him–thick.  It wasn’t long until I found out that people thought I was fat. Family members made comments about how heavy I was or how big I was. And then in second grade a boy called me Miss Piggy.

That’s how I learned that I was fat.   I have never been thin.  Ever.  I used to wish I was a boy–because if I was, maybe people would cut me some slack and I would play games like football where being big was good. 

When I was a little girl, I used to watch reruns of I dream of Jeannie and Bewitched and fantasize about being able to magically turn myself skinny with the cross of my arms and a blink or a wiggle of my nose.  I played out scenarios where I suddenly had three wishes and the first wish would be to wish for three more wishes.  The second would be that I would be the “perfect” weight and size.  The third would be that my dad would be mentally healthy and my parents could be together again.  From there it usually went to material things.

My mom and I didn’t have a clue how to eat healthy.  Mom was naturally thin.  Plus she smoked.  And we weren’t exactly well off.  We qualified for welfare, but mom was too proud to take it.  Instead, she worked hard and we just did without or made do. 

My concept of a diet was not healthy.  And because I didn’t realize I was hypoglycemic, I didn’t manage my eating correctly.  I would miss a meal and get famished and as a result binge.  Usually on bad stuff.  Because that’s what we had.

Buying clothes has never been fun for me.  I’ve always been in the big girl’s section or the plus sizes, struggling to find something in style that would look good on me.  But nothing ever looked good on me.  By the time I got to junior high and high school I had “dieted” my way up in size to a 14 or 16.  And I was always the biggest girl in the group. 

I didn’t go on dates.  I didn’t have boyfriends.  Boys didn’t like big girls.  At least that’s what I believed.  So if a boy showed an interest in me, it had to be a joke, right? I would see other girls my size or larger with boyfriends and wonder how they did it. How did they get the boy?

I had been made fun of throughout elementary school and it stuck with me. In addition to these issues there was my family situation. My parents divorced when I was five due to my dad’s schizophrenia. I spent every other weekend with him and while he was a functioning member of society, I knew all about his illness and was confronted by the evidence of it in his conviction that God spoke directly to him–along with other delusions. I’ve since discovered somewhere (and I can’t find the source now) that daughters of schizophrenic fathers are statistically overwhelmingly obese. I don’t know why, although I’ve seen reference to a term called “father hunger.” I guess we eat to fill the void left by our mentally ill fathers? 

I’ve searched for support groups that would fit my particular situation, trying to find answers to my own issues.  But it’s always been without success.

Anyway, add to that popular culture’s message about what the right body shape is and you get one of the most painfully shy, body-conscious, down-on-herself girls you can imagine. Me.

To be continued…

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