For some reason, I haven't been a fan of this body that I've been given. I've not taken good care of it over the years. I go in these sort of spurts of caring for it. I enjoy eating healthy foods and have a craving for salads loaded with kale, texture, and possibilities, knowing what it would do for my body in the long run. But, me being the self-sabotaging me that I've been for these past 49, I won't make one for myself or will instead opt for something crappy.
Every Story Has A Backstory
Since I was about six or seven, food has been a friend. She showed me love and took me in. Each bite I took was a way to calm the hurt. A soothing dose of goodness that made all of life go away. In my home, food was the one way that we were show love. Our mother would bake us large chocolate chip cookies in place of giving us soothing words or kindnesses. Pots of spaghetti enough to feed a family of seven would be dug into at dinner and hours later, I'd find myself sneaking into the fridge to make a sandwich of the leftovers. I'd stand in front of the pot stuffing cold spaghetti between two slices of bread to get a final fix into my ten-year-old body.
By the time I was in middle school, I was officially the fat girl. There was always one or two of us in each grade. Christina Andrews and Lisa Holloman picked on me daily. They were the pretty girls who saw me as a wounded animal they'd find pleasure in taunting. Pencil shavings were poured on my head, a maxi pad stuck to my back, and the name calling intense enough that a handful of ibuprofen at 12 seemed like the way to end it all.
The weight kept piling on and by high school, I tipped the scales at over 270 pounds. The pounds were uncomfortable. Diets didn't work. My father had taken me to Weight Watchers, a nutritionists, and some chain of diet centers were I was injected weekly with vitamin shots. I drank horrible tasting orange shakes and convinced myself that the chicken bits that I squeezed from a pouch onto a paper plate for dinner was fantastic. Thousands of dollars were spent a few pounds lost. Each diet super unsuccessful. It was this constant cycle of trying and failing that I've been on since childhood.
I graduated high school a fat woman. I remember graduation and the stickiness of the gown and the feeling of my thighs rubbing together to the point they were raw. Yet, I kept on eating and not figuring out why. Life took me to different places and in those years, the food story has changed and what I've done to my body as a result is an area where I've got to unfuck myself and my thinking.
Unfucking myself with the food and taking care of my body is one of my major goals in these next four months. During the pandemic I had an opportunity to sit with myself and sort it out, but I instead was super soft on myself. I give myself these crutches and off ramps that are fun for a second, but have lasting impacts on my forever.
I'm currently laying out the map of what all of this is going to look like, but I think that I'll start with asking myself these questions and going from there. Each of the questions form the basis of my plan to Unfuck my life.
Questions to Ask in the Unfucking of Me
Where I'm at?
Where I want to go?
How I'm going to get there?
What will be required of me to make it happen?
Who will I ask for help?
What will be the potential outcome?
How will I measure success along the way?
But, I've got to go put on a pot of coffee, and then head off to start my day. I've got business to focus on, but this unfucking of myself has become my greatest project. The world will continue to spin and until I make making my life as I want it to be a priority, I'll never enjoy it to its fullest.
