*warning my trigger those with eating disorders*

I look back at pictures and there are a few years there where I was pretty thin, but I don’t remember myself as ever being thin. Probably because Golden was always thinner. And I just wanna pull back and explain that I was never jealous of Golden. I was jealous I wasn’t as worthy as she was, but I loved Golden. She was smart and funny and was really nice to everyone.

My short adventure in thindom was over by 5th grade. By junior high I was a joke. I remember being in the mall and seeing that scale that looks like a video game outside the GNC, mom’s telling Golden they should see what they weigh, she’s trying to convince me that I should just watch, but I didn’t want to be left out. Golden weighed 87 lbs. Mom weighed 115 lbs. I weighed 137 lbs.

I begged my mom for a wall mirror so I could torture myself with how fat I was. I remember I lost my choir skirt and during class the next day the teacher held it up and it was the same size as her. I probably should’ve waited till after class to go get it, but I was so used to being humiliated I didn’t even think of it. Everyone laughed at me and the teacher didn’t say sorry either.

My mom would vacillate between hot and cold when it came to my weight. She pretended that she had no bearing whatsoever on my body issues and acted baffled by my misery and self-hate. She’d pull me aside some times and tell me that she loved me no matter what size I was. Then she would scream at me that she “wouldn’t buy me ‘Fat clothes’”. She’d find out I ate a whole package of Velveeta and go on a rampage about all the calories. Then she’d send me home to gramma and forget all about what I’m eating.

She bought me a whole package of Goldfish crackers, and I ate about a third and put the rest back. She saw this and came at me very crazy, “No! I got you that whole package! You can eat the whole thing! Go ahead! Go ahead and eat it. I got it for you.” It was one of the most bizarre episodes I ever had with my mom. I felt like there were guns pointed at me and I’m not making it out as pretty as when I went in. It’s the kindof thing that happens and then you cry, but you aren’t sure why you’re crying. I made myself very still and kept eye-contact with her. In my best de-escalator voice I said, “Thank you. Really. I really appreciate it. I’m actually fine right now, but I’ll be sure to have the rest later. Thank you.” Somehow that worked. She left and my heart pounded like a jackhammer. I was high school age and that’s when I noticed my heart palpitations were worsening.

By junior high I was sneaking food in my room. Even if I hadn’t eaten a whole lot I felt safer in my own space. If I was eating in the kitchen and mom came home she would make some comment about it to make me feel bad. I did not feel safe eating in front of her unless it was during a meal, and even then I was being criticized for how quickly I ate, how little I chewed, if I made a rude noise on accident, and, god-forbid if I wanted seconds. I loved her garlic bread. Having it was such torture, because I wanted two or three pieces but I would pay with her looks of disappointment. Later on she’d point out how Sinatra’s kids don’t eat half as much as I do.

Mom liked me at church, and I liked being at church because they always had food. 5th quarter was like food bonanza 5 times a year: punch, chips, cake, and cookies. Even in-between regular Sunday school and church were the most delicious donut-holes. Try them dipped in the fruit punch- manifique!

I rode my bike a few blocks to Dairy Queen when I had a few bucks and get a large blizzard- cookie dough, mint chip, or oreo. One day I actually ate 2 large oreo blizzards back-to-back.
I figured out how to program the vcr to record DragonBall Z. After school I’d walk to the gas station, get a bag of pizzeria combos and a 32 oz pepsi and guzzle them down as I watched my show. If I ran out too fast I might even make a bag of popcorn or two.

In h...

[ Continued ]

*warning may trigger those with eating disorders*

I suppose my self-loathing must’ve come from there. I had to believe that something was wrong with me, that’s why mom doesn’t want to be around me-I’m not pretty/skinny enough. It’s all my fault! If I was just skinny mom would love me! Nevermind that Mom has been avoiding me since I was a twiggy toddler.

Those early premonitions were confirmed when mom took me away to live with her and Sinatra. Here- meet your three new beanpole siblings. And she just LOVED them! Could not get ENOUGH of them! Especially my step-sister Golden who she always wanted to do girly things with and didn’t invite me to do with them.

Mom figured if she didn’t buy any junk food I would trim down. I went from white bread to wheat bread, soda and milkshakes to water, mashed potatoes and corn to broccoli and lima beans, hamburger to fish. Nowadays, yes I eat healthy, but that’s my choice. Back then it made a difficult transition so much harder to take. I did slim down for a few years, but I was miserable. It’s pretty bad when you look forward to school lunches.

Like I said before every chance I got I was sent back to gramma’s. And did I eat healthy? F*&$# NO! I was back on the wagon, baby! Gramma can I get a milkshake on the way home? Large, please! Do I want a happy meal? Of course! For dinner can we have pizza? Can we make cookies? Do we have any ice cream at home?

Did mom try to get gramma to make me eat healthier? She probably said something. I noticed a side of buttery peas got added into the rotation of dinner sides. But, honestly, I think gramma saw how unhappy I was and knew there wasn’t much she could really do for me except feed me. And did mom really care about what I was eating? Not more than having time alone with Sinatra and his kids.

I just wanna fall into those memories: gramma’s slow-cooked Italian beef sandwiches on New Year’s Eve, microwaving ice cream and mixing it until it was soft serve, three bowls of fruity pebbles for breakfast, mixing my mashed potatoes and mac’n’cheese together, popcorn at the movies, mozzarella stick appetizers, stacking my pepperoni’s into a spicy, greasy tower, cheesecake, pringles, and SODA.

End Part 2

*warning this may trigger those with eating disorders*

When I was very young feeding me was a horror. I rarely ate anything other than PB sandwiches, hotdogs, and sunnyside-up eggs (but just the yolk on my toast). Every meal was an opportunity to terrorize me. Vegetables were the stuff of nightmares. Just thinking about putting a veggie on my tongue made me want to hurl.

I have no memories of eating prior to the divorce, aside from my dad telling me that my spaghetti was monkey brains. It’s a fun memory though. Dad made things fun that other grownup were just mean about.

Eating became the center of my universe when I moved in with gramma. She always had something cooking, some new desert to try, or a batter beater to lick. She was so happy to feed me, and I loved making my gramma happy. Her macaroni and cheese couldn’t be beat. Throw some buttery mashed potatoes on there with a couple of cans of pepsi and we had ourselves a party.

Whenever I had something to celebrate gramma would take me out for a McDonald’s milkshake, or Arby’s roast beef, or pizza hut, or burger king. And I loved it. Where was my mom? I don’t know. That’s a good question.

I didn’t know I was getting heavy until mom started making comments. She made me come upstairs to give me a “present”. I was all excited until I saw it: a desk ornament of a fat pig holding a sign that said: Don’t Pig Out. She explained that looking at this every day would help me develop better eating habits. I wanted to cry so bad, but she never gives me anything and if I were to get upset she might leave me forever. So I forced myself to smile and thank her.

End part 1

“In my younger days I made some reckless, dangerous decisions that I am not proud of. The result of those decisions was that I caught pregnant. And I had abortions. Not one, not two, but three total. I’m deeply shamed by my actions. Not because I have aborted pregnancies but because I have been a hypocrite. I marched my daughter to our pro-life rallies and made her agree to a policy that I thought didn’t apply to me. Even worse I tried to make her responsible for my decision to abort the third pregnancy which would’ve been her younger half-brother or sister. I went to her and I asked, ‘You wouldn’t like a brother or sister, would you?’ I baited her to give me an excuse so I could blame her if she ever found out. I had not been the best mother in the world, and I knew I wouldn’t have been any better for the new baby. My new marriage was based on love, yes, but love for each other. Neither of us wanted another child. So I had my third and final abortion; after which my husband agreed to a vasectomy. It was after our ability to get pregnant ended that I began to embrace the pro-life culture. God had forgiven my sins, but he wouldn’t allow sin in others. Now that I was forgiven I was a golden child of god. I realize now that it isn’t enough to have God’s forgiveness if your actions continue to hurt the people you love the most. Sometimes forgiveness must be given by man. So I ask my daughter, ‘Can you forgive me for judging you with the weight of my sins? Can you forgive me for my hypocrisy?’ And I must ask this congregation, ‘Please stop making the mistakes I made. Do not continue to judge your children by the weight of their parent’s sin. I do not advocate for abortion, but I refuse to be a hypocrite any longer. I will not continue to try to take away the rights of others after I’ve had my fill. I’m tired of seeing church-girls being sent ‘up-state’. We don’t need to wear abortion on our sleeves, but there is no need for this type of evil. And I’m not talking about abortion- I’m talking about the lies and deceits inherit in hypocrisy. If you know a woman or girl and you care about them they could get pregnant, and maybe they just aren’t ready. Whatever their reason is it is THEIR’S. The reason is THEIR’S. Not ours. So hate me, shun me, cast me out, but I go clean because I’m done with this evil.”

That’s the speech I dream my mother would make.

I honestly wonder how one person can be pregnant so much. I’ve never been pregnant. Why couldn’t she be on birth-control? Why didn’t they wear condoms? Why didn’t she tell them to pull-out?

I don’t know. It disgusts me how careless she was. It disgusts me more that she made me feel shame over my sexuality. She cried when she found out I was having sex with my long-time boyfriend. The only person I had ever had sex with, the person who I loved and who loved me. While she was the town pump; getting knocked up by any red-neck who bought her a beer. And if Sinatra died she’d be swinging from sheet to sheet until she found another one who could tolerate her crazy enough to marry her.

She really did ask me about that baby. I was 8 yrs old and I was watching TV in the living room of our *mod edit* apartment. She stood, leaning in the doorway, “You wouldn’t like to have a little brother or sister, would you?” she smirked darkly and shaking her head slightly. I think she asked me, because she knew I always tried to take care of her needs as best as I could, and, as long as she gave me the answer I’d be glad to give it to her. What she and I both failed to realize was that this was an intriguing question for me; I’d never considered I’d be a big sister. I thought and said, “Actually, I think that’d be kinda neat. I think I would like a kid sibling.” Her whole body reared back, her eyes grew wide as she spun herself around and stalked, wordlessly back to the kitchen. For awhile I was expecting an announcement of a new member of the family, but it never came, and I figured she was just playing a h...

[ Continued ]

I was probably nine years old. It was the end of another long-break from school and mom was coming to pick me up from gramma. A craft sale was being organized in the church basement and they arranged for us to meet there.

I was excited to see all the crafts and happy mom could spend some time with gramma. While they were talking I went to look around. I was wearing my favorite one-piece outfit- a purple and blue striped short-sleeve and short pants cotton number with buttons on the center going down from the collar.

I started going up and down the displays looking at all the crafts. I noticed I had to pee, but I decided I could hold it. For some reason I got stuck in my head that I needed to look at all the crafts before I could go to the bathroom. Why? I have no idea. Occasionally I’ll have these drives to “complete” things: watch all my movies, read all my books, wear all my socks. But that night it was: look at all the crafts before going to the bathroom.

So there I went- table to table, gazing painstakingly at each little work of art, feeling my bladder get fuller and fuller. I realized that this was stupid; there’s no way I can make it. I ran-waddled as fast as I could to the girl’s room and began struggling to free my lower body from my favorite (now worst enemy) one-piece. I lost control less than a foot away from the toilet.

Even as a small child I rarely had accidents, so this was very new to me. I was embarrassed, but not super embarrassed. I thought, ‘Accidents happen. I’m a little kid this isn’t going to be that big of a deal.’

I wish I had gone to gramma. If I’d shown gramma what happened she probably would’ve found some donation cloths right there in the church, or she would’ve insisted I go back to her house to change.

But I didn’t tell gramma. I decided Mom would fix this. When I told her what happened she almost couldn’t contain her joy. She was visibly snickering at me, and doing a poor job of using her hand to hide her mouth. Even then I wasn’t that embarrassed, ‘Yeah it is a little funny, I guess. She’s allowed to snicker a little.’ I thought. But I was growing more self-conscious and the heat was leaving so now I was getting cold and dealing with the smell and discomfort. “Can we go back to gramma’s so I can change clothes?” I asked.

I was never good with directions until I started driving. So it was years before I realized I was lied to. My mom told me that we couldn’t go back to gramma’s because it was too far out of the way. I didn’t know then but we had to drive past gramma’s house to get to the interstate. At most a trip for fresh cloths would’ve amounted to an extra 15 minutes.

My mother made me sit in soiled clothing for over 2 hours.

I realized soon after she said that we couldn’t stop that this went way beyond what’s appropriate for finding humor in the situation. The entire length of the trip she would not stop looking over at me with her hand over her mouth, snickering. She even pulled out her cell phone to call her husband (Sinatra) and laughed with him right in front of me.

My whole life up unto that point I had never been as miserable as I was during those 2 hours. I sat, rigid, my eyes wide and barely blinking, my mouth set in a grimace. I thought she might see the damage she was doing and stop, but she never did. In fact, as soon as we pulled into the driveway Sinatra practically leaped out of the house to laugh at me. I mall-walked past him (I think he knew I was hurt bc he looked apologetic).

I really have to wonder what kind of person would force someone, reeking of urine, to sit in a confined space less than two feet away from them for over two hours?