Monkey Mama Lite

Quieting my inner bully

I thought about reverting to old, unhealthy behaviors to lose weight. I have once again let myself get back to a place where I hate myself physically. And when I hate myself physically, I get depressed. And when I am depressed, I comfort through food. It’s a horrible, vicious cycle that I have become all too accustomed with now at 33.

I sat at my desk yesterday at work feeling very low. I looked at my reflection on Easter Sunday and saw my ever expanding belly staring me back in the face. My once toned arms were even larger than I had remembered them to be. I saw my real self that day. Not the thinner, healthier self that desperately want to be, but the real, heavy, need to lose weight self that is my reality. I have let myself get so bogged down by the stresses of life recently that I let myself go. Yes, I had been getting up to Spin, but spinning once a week is simply not going to cut it if I really want to get healthy again.

I really don’t know what needs to change in my head to make these healthy lifestyle habits become just that, every day habits. I don’t know how to flip that switch in my brain so that the inner, bullied, fat girl closes her mouth and believes that she can be healthy and happy, for a lifetime. I worry that I will start this journey and something will once again trigger me to stand by the kitchen sink and eat macaroni and cheese straight from the pot.

But for today, I’m reminding myself that this journey is simply one day at a time. I can not control what will happen down the road, but I can control what I put in my mouth today. I can remind myself how good it feels when I make good, clean, consistent, healthy choices and how bad I feel when I don’t.

I need to quiet that 5^th grade girl who was called fat and ugly by her thoughtless classmates. I need to quiet that 5^th grade girl who was given the adult size life jacket on her 5^th grade school Baltimore boating fielf trip because, according to one of those mean bullies, I was too fat to wear the size everyone else was wearing.  I need to quiet that 2^nd grade girl who was called Andre the Giant and was given the role of the giant in her third grade play. That was a long time ago. Those words were not true then and I will not let them be true now.  Just because I was bullied then does not mean I need to bully myself today.

Once again, I am putting one foot in front of the other, committed (albeit for the zillionth time) to getting healthy again. I will show myself and those mean childhood bullies that I am stronger than even I think I am.

From Then till Now

We started “dating” on March 30^th, 1994. I have to put dating in quotations because how much actual dating do you do when you are freshmen in high school? We passed notes between classes (notes that I admittedly still have in a special box under my bed), hung out at each others’ houses on the weekends....

walked each other to class and went to the occasional movie or party or dance.

It was an intense year back then. We were inseparable and I loved him as much as a sixteen year old is capable of loving another person. Our break-up in February of 1995 was tough on me. It was heart breaking. I lost about 20 pounds and was the thinnest I would ever be in my adult body. It was the first, but not the last time that I would feel that kind of soul crushing break-up sadness. As an adult I realize that young love like that is not sustainable, it is merely the fabric that creates our adulthood blanket. He moved away not long after that, but we stayed in touch and eventually spent the next four years as what we now jokingly call our “friends with benefits” period. 

And then we lost touch for seven years. And I wondered about him, wondered where he was and what he was doing. The bi-yearly google search eventually showed me where he was and I knew that I needed to officially close that still cracked door to my heart.

In late 2005 his circumstances changed and we re-connected, briefly. He deployed to Iraq, we continued to reconnect via emails and letters and phone calls. In December of 2006 he proposed with personalized purple and blue M&Ms saying “Will you Marry Me” and “Will you be my wife”, placed in a Christmas ornament tin on his mother’s Christmas tree. And on June 17^th, 2007, at a park that we frequented as teenagers, we got married.

This June will be our five year wedding anniversary and as I said in a recent post, I would be lying if I said that the past five years have been easy and pure wedded bliss. But I can truly say that I love him more today than I did back then, even at 15. What I love the most about him is his ability to love. He may have a tough guy bravado, trying to pretend he does not have a sentimental side, but he does. And he loves me more than anyone ever has or ever will. And as an independent woman, that it very important to me. I worked hard for my education and where I am in my career. I was told from a young age that no matter what, I needed to be able to take care of myself. So, I do not need a man to “take care of me”. I need a man to love and accept me, flaws and all. And I am not naïve to think that that is an easy request.

He is kind and a constant comedian. Watching him with our son melts my heart daily. Watching PEY’s unconditional love for him, watching them play together, and hearing PEY’s belly laughs only elicited by his father, is one of the most fulfilling things I have ever experienced.

And he listens. He hears me when I share how I am feeling and he takes it to heart, even if it takes a few hours or even a few days, to sink in. I am pretty sure that it is that quality alone that has helped sustain us as we grow.

It’s crazy to say, but I knew at 15 that I would marry David. I even stood in my kitchen, unloading the dishwasher with my mom that summer we started dating, and told her how lucky I felt to have met the man I would spend the rest of my life with at such an early age. But I am also so grateful of the experiences that we both had, before June 17^th, 2007. We were able to live separate adult lives, experience things that we would not have been able to experience as a couple; ultimately making us more well-rounded adults, equipped for the long marriage haul.

I used to be one of those Valentine’s Day haters. I would wear black and mope around like a little girl who lost her puppy. I still think that the day is ridiculous. It is filled with unrealistic expectations for a made-up holiday that ultimately leaves no one feeling satisfied. But I don’t hate it anymore. Now, it’s just another day that I am grateful for the life that I have. And today, like every other day, I love my husband and I find happiness in knowing that he loves me in return.

We're wonderful, we know it, but we can't help it.

She is five years older and as a kid, she was exactly who I wanted to be when I too was five years older. She knew everything about how to be cool; from what music I should be listening to, to what shows I should be watching on tv. She would clip out cool adds from cool magazines and post them on her walls like artwork. I tried to emulate this process but mine always came out looking a little junky, a little scattered.

She introduced me to the 90s hair bands and true rock and roll. Because of her, I still turn to one of my many The Cure cds when I am sad and looking for music to go with my mood.

As kids we spent hours playing school, playing office, creating our own design companies using the ancient Paper Shop as our printing tool. Her company was KLS Incorporated, mine was ACS Designs. When we played office we pretended we were characters from Dallas or Santa Barbara, both soaps, one nighttime, one daytime, that I was not allowed to watch but being five years older, she certainly was.

As a teenager she was my go to for all mature matters when my Mother could not be trusted to provide unbiased advice. When together we would spend hours talking, sharing stories, me constantly soaking in her words, often until the wee hours of the morning. Whenever a large VHS video camera was around we would not miss the opportunity to share our coined catch phrase, “We are wonderful, we know it, but we can’t help it”. I can still picture us standing arm in arm in my backyard, or at my grandmother’s dining room table, saying those exact words, to the chagrin of our family members.

She is my cousin Kristin. The one who I can attribute my fashion sense, my love of music and my deep appreciation for family. She was the sister that I never had.

We grew up and we grew apart. That, unfortunately, is often the way that growing up goes. Now families and distance and our own obligations challenge once sacred and hallowed connections. But then something magical happened, social media brought us back together. For all of its faults, Twitter has been the way, in 140 characters or less, that we have managed to re-connect.

Kristin is wicked smart, although I’m not sure she always gives herself enough credit for that. She is a fierce democrat, in a town where fierce democrats are not understood. And for that I think she is brave and strong. She soaks in information that is not always at everyone’s fingertips and she is not afraid to speak her mind.

I admire the life she has created for herself in her own little neck of the woods. She has two remarkable boys who bring out her mama bear instincts but also her youthful abandon. She fights for them and loves on them and helps them appreciate the good shows and the good music now too.

I have truly missed her presence in my life and I am so grateful that it is returning. It is often so hard to redefine relationships as we get older; to find a place for them to fit when we are such different people then we were as kids. But I wanted to take a few moments to say how much I love her. How much I have always loved her. Because we are still wonderful, and we should always know it.  

**I will post photos as soon as I can get my act together enough to upload some***  

A revival

God I miss blogging. I read others well written blogs, sharing bit and pieces of their day to day and I miss blogging so much that it creates a little ache inside. Most of the time I am inspired after reading others' blogs and I begin to write, composing bits and pieces in a Word document that I can't ever seem to finish. The initial surge is great, but the ability to wrap up the thoughts into a cohesive package to neatly deliver as an entry is not possible. There is still simply too much to write about.

But instead of holding myself hostage between what is and what is not acceptable to write about here I have decided that writing is more important to me then not writing at all. I just need to come up with topics to write about that are not so deeply personal that it will hurt my family members for sharing their story, or so deeply personal that my family members will be upset that I am sharing it here and not with them.

So, inspired by Sweetney I am going to spend February writing about people that I love. Because here is what I have come to realize recently, we don't tell those that matter to us, how much they matter to us, nearly enough. Sure we say "I love you" during phone calls or emails or text messages. Sure we kiss our significant others and tell them that we love them, but do we ever really say why? Do we ever, or very often, take the time to share with those that matter to us, why they matter to us? Life is busy and life is fast. And I have gotten so caught up in the busy and the fast and the down right crap of life recently, that I haven't come up for air. I have surrounded myself with my little family cocoon, in sheer survival mode really. But it's time to come up for air. It's time to accept this current space as our reality and make the best out of this current reality no matter how craptastic it tends to be.

And so I am going to share stories and anecdotes about the people in my life who help get me out of bed every morning. If the words flow as easily as I hope that they will, it will take me much longer then a month to get through this. But it is someplace to start, I think. Someplace to find my own blogging voice again. A way to find my way back.

Today I am grateful for my marriage. It is my humble opinion that life can not have all of the pieces working perfectly together at any given time. For instance to have your relationship with your spouse, your job, your finances, your family, all moving forward in perfect harmony is about as likely as the childhood Andrea (that's me in case you were wondering) getting to be Princess Leia when she grew up. Right now there are some pieces of our life that are downright craptastic (job, finances, the loss of family members) but our marriage, I am proud to say, is strong.

I think that it is fair to admit (and I hope that David would agree with me on this one too) that it has not always been easy for us. We have had to work on the success of our marriage from the beginning. And I will be the first to admit that I had no freakin' idea what people truly meant when they said that "marriages are work". I smiled and thought I knew, but oh boy, I really didn't have a freakin' clue. But we have continued to plug away, learning from each other, and learning how to exist not only as husband and wife, but as people who genuinely care about the other person, people who are proud to call each other a friend. I believe whole heartedly that to stay in love you really do have to work at it, each and every day.

I am really proud of the two of us. And not only that, I am really proud of my husband. He has faced some really hard things in the past year. He has been given a lousy hand of cards and he has been playing the heck out of that hand, refusing to fold. And because I have seen him fighting for us, for our team, I have been motivated to fight to. And together it feels like we have been kicking life's butt right back. Sure life, you can throw crap our way, but we refuse to let you get the best of us. And today, that is what I am so grateful for. I am so grateful that we are staying strong and united. I love my marriage, its imperfections and all. Yes, we still make each other crazy and we have many days when we don't chose our words so carefully and push each other's buttons just because we can. But it's because we have been able to pick ourselves up from those days and not let them turn into weeks and then months that I am also proud. On March 30th we will have been together, on and off, for 18 years. In June we will have been married for 5. I'm proud of how far we have come and I love that today, I can truly say, that I love my marriage.

A holiday tribute

Just a few days more then 10 years ago, my Papa lost his brave battle with a very aggressive cancer. So aggressive in fact that he didn’t discover it until around Halloween of October, 2000 and he passed away on December 19^th, 2000. He was a special man. My mother still feels extreme guilt over my Papa’s death. He went through some very aggressive surgery when we learned of his cancer (working at Johns Hopkins, allows for you to call in a favor every now and then) and he were hopeful that it would not take his life. He was hopeful too. So very hopeful. Sadly, the treatment did not work although he fought the good fight. The man wanted to live to be 100. He wanted to make it to his 60^th wedding anniversary. He made it to 88 and was married for 59 years. My son is named after him. He was the last of a generation of truly good, honest men. The son of Italian immigrants, a World War II vet, who had a work ethic like no other, who had a sense a family and duty and responsibility that those of this generation simply do not understand. I was with him, in his room, the night he took his last breath. I knew the moment his spirit was no longer in his physical form.

A few years later, his wife, my Nonna, lost her battle with alzheimers, around 8am on Christmas morning. She was a tough old bird. A feisty, resilient Italian matriarch, with a beautiful sense of style She was hard to understand at times, but she grew softer and warmer as the alzheimers took over. A daughter of Italian immigrants, a sister of 6 other siblings, and a saying of “you can’t fight city hall” used often. She believed in the beauty of the holidays, the importance of family, the joy of a good game of cards and she could cook the heck out of some homemade pasta. She grew up with a wall around her heart, from the challenges of life, but the moments where that wall was removed, when she let you into her heart, are moments that I treasure. When she passed I was driving to Pennsylvania for my cousin, her great-neices, wedding. I was coming over a hill, and the sun was rising behind it, casting a warm red and orange glow over the valley. At that very moment I had a sense of peace and calm that can not fully be described, and I knew she was finally at peace. Moments later my mother called me to let me know that what I had believed was true, my Nonna joined my Papa. It was the kind of moment that even the non-believers couldn’t deny was very spiritual.

And my Grami. Simply writing about her makes me cry. My relationship with her was unique and deeply special. She was simple, in a beautiful apple pie and meatloaf kind of way. I credit her with my love of cooking. She prided herself on her marriage of utopic happiness. She was a homemaker, a Sunday School Teacher, and a grandmother. She was my biggest cheerleader, my support system, providing me with an unconditional love that few ever get to experience. I have a china cabinet full of the music boxes she carefully picked out for me every year for my birthday, along with binders of the “Grami Love Books” she created for me as a child. I have boxes of the letters she sent me in college, and my blankie still rests under my head every night. I wasn’t able to say goodbye to her when she passed away, I was past my due date and my husband was horribly sick with pancreatitis, and hospitalized. She too had suffered from the horrible affects of alzheimers for years. It wasn’t until the very end that she did not know who I was and it was very painful to see the woman who had been my comfort, my security blanket for so long, slowly become someone that I no longer knew. I still feel guilty that I wasn’t there for her when her spirit left her body. I hope she knows that my spirit was with her and it always was.

I love the holidays. But they are also hard. The reminder of those who are no longer her lingers in my psyche, creating a little pang of sadness in my heart.  This year, amidst all of the happiness and the joy, I remember them. 

 

It's a Dysfunctional Family Christmas Miracle!!

In T-minue 5 days, it will be Christmas. And like a little kid expecting Santa, the excitement is building. But the excitement is building for me this year in a much different way. I am not as excited for the presents that Santa will leave under the tree, although those are still fun. I am much more excited about the company I will be keeping.

This year, for the first time in almost 20 years, I get to spend the holidays with both of my parents. AT THE SAME TIME. Yes, you can pick yourself up off of the floor now, you read that correctly. BOTH of my parents are coming to my house for Christmas. To some of you this may not seem like a monumental moment. Many of you probably spend the holidays with both of your parents, every year. Not this girl. My parents are divorced, have been for almost 20 years. And spending time together, in the same room, let alone Christmas, was never on the top of either of their lists.

But now, putting their history aside, both of them have grown up so much, and I couldn’t be prouder. Sharing holidays with both your own family and your spouse’s family during the holidays can be hard enough. Trying to share the holidays with four separate sets of parents (since both of our parents are divorced) creates a whole new set of holiday drama. And I will admit, most years my Dad gets the shaft, since he lives in California, too far for a Christmas Day drive-by.

When my parents split up I did not fantasize about them getting back together. I did not spend countless nights hoping and praying and asking Santa to put our family back together. Even at 13 I knew that some breaks, no matter how painful, were not going to heal. And with that notion, I never really thought that we would all be able to spend the holidays together again. We created new memories and new traditions and as an adult I ultimately had to choose which parent I would spend the holidays with.

This year I will have both my Mom AND Dad with me on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. And I’m not even nervous about the awkwardness, because even those days are behind us (I bought plenty of adult beverages to ease the tension too, cause nothing says, “Happy Birthday Jesus!”  like a nice Irish Coffee, and some tasty Gluhwein). 

Not having to choose this year is the best Christmas present either of them could give to me. I don’t know if either of them know how profoundly important it is to me (and I’m sure to my brother too, since he was only 5 when they split) to have them both with me and my family this year. I love both of my parents so much, in two very different ways, and I love that I can open my home to both of them, at the same time. I love the progress we have all made in our relationships and I love, that 20 years later, we can all get over ourselves and have one darn good Christmas, as a new age family. 

 

The long road ahead

I’m having a day. And it’s all because of the stupid scale that is up an astounding 4 lbs in less than 24 hours. The realistic side of me realizes that something is off, but the frustrated, trying desperately to reach a goal by November 30^th side of me wanted to punch a big ole’ hole through our bathroom wall. Instead, I cried in the shower. A lot. And then went to work with a big ole’ attitude on my shoulder. Cause let’s face it, the biggest motivator in weight loss is plain and simple weight loss. And the biggest de-railer in weight loss is a large, unexpected, scale jump.

Saturday night I started to feel my resolve to eat clean, slipping away. I made myself my usual chamomile tea and made the husband some hot chocolate. And as I stared into our cabinet that holds our tea/coffee/hot chocolate stash, I really wanted some of the delicious, decadent, dark chocolate hot chocolate that was staring back at me; full of refined sugars and all out deliciousness. And it wasn’t like I just wanted that cup, it was like I saw the whole holiday season staring back at me, and I just wanted to give up on this weight loss journey. I just wanted to say, “ENOUGH!” and start eating sugary, tasty, and horrible for me, delicious morsels of the holidays. The good news is that I stuck with my tea. I didn’t go and blow my hard work and I didn’t crash and burn, which makes the large scale hike this week all the more disappointing.

What this disappointment and frustration also reminds me of are my old, buried, but not forgotten, HORRIBLE habits for weight loss. I never had a full blown eating disorder. But I have gone through a few periods of borderline bulimia. Tiptoeing into the vicious cycle of binging and purging, in a desperate attempt to eat AND lose weight. I have always been able to stop, before it became horribly unhealthy, always able to step away from the compulsion and step back into reality. I know I can’t return to those unhealthy habits, even if they mean I could make it to my November 30^th goal, but they still pop up, tapping at the back of my brain as possibilities. But I want to be successful. I want to lose this weight, the road ahead of me just seems very, VERY long.

Yes (before this morning’s stupid scale hike) I have lost 32 lbs since December 28^th, 2009. And yes, my clothes fit, my exercise endurance is greater, I can feel my muscles growing and getting stronger. But, to be honest, I just don’t feel that different. I look at pictures and I see the same fat girl staring back at me. I still feel like last year’s Andrea, overweight and frustrated. And it frustrates me because I earned every one of those lost pounds, and I feel like it should feel different. I feel like I should FEEL better. And, I’m scared. I am really, really scared. A set back like this, on an already fragile sense of resolve to make it to my goal, scares the heck out of me. Yes, I have changed a lot, but those bad habits are still there, poking out their devilish heads when my resolve is low. Tempting me to make bad choices with a million excuses why it is ok. And the holidays are hard, even for a healthy person without a lifetime of bad eating choices. No one ever said this journey would be easy. But today, this journey is kicking my butt, and I’m fearful I don’t have the resolve to kick it right back. 

 

Waiting for Superman

There is a new documentary out entitled Waiting for Superman. And it is probably premature that I write about it, since I haven’t actually SEEN the movie yet, but I have discussed it, in length with my Mother. I will most certainly watch the movie. But let’s be honest, I am kind of the choir when it comes to that topic.

Education is one of my many soapboxes. I used to be an educator. Both of my parents still are educators. And I guess in many respects, since I still “train” adults, I am also still an educator. Education, and the importance of education, runs through my veins. But the education system of The United States, said simply, SUCKS. We are not only failing our children, but we are failing our teachers. And failing both of those groups of people is setting us up for a future of disaster.

I was supposed to be an elementary school teacher. At least that is what I worked towards during my four years in undergrad.  And in all honesty, I was going to be an AWESOME teacher. It was one of those things that I know with all of my heart that I was good at. My bleeding heart was well suited for the classroom, where I believe every student has a chance, and every student deserves a good education. Being given the opportunity to mold young minds is a gift and a role that not enough people take seriously and our country does not place enough value on education or the quality of teachers. I have tried many times to write about my teaching experience. To write about how the administration and the system failed me. But I just cannot bring myself to put all of that pain out there yet. The experience, nine plus years later is still raw.

When I was given the opportunity to student teach and then to have my own classroom, I was presented with a long road of challenges. And these challenges hit me at a time when I was about to and had just graduated from college. And the challenges were not small. The challenges cut right to the core of my whole being and beat me down. I doubted my ability as a teacher and as a human being. And these challenge were unjust and unfair and forced me into the decision that teaching was not my path, at least it wasn’t back then.

Maybe someday I will write about my negative teaching experience in detail. I will document the trouble that I experienced. But for now, I  can only reference the experience. Explaining what happened, explaining why I gave up on teaching puts me back in a vulnerable place, both to be judged by people that don’t know me, and for me to again, feel like a failure.

To get to the point of why I even am bringing up something that I am not willing to talk about, yet, on the internet, is to say that we, as a country need to place more value on education. Failing teachers is one thing. Failing children and students is a whole other tragedy. A system that fails to retain good, honest, hardworking teachers, who are willing to devote their entire lives to a low paying, lacking in respect job, to better the world, is inexcusable and needs to be changed. A system that allows for a 60% or greater drop out rate, needs to be changed. Instead of thinking so narrowly, instead of constantly thinking of the “what’s best for ME, how can the system help ME NOW?” we need to start thinking of our future. We need to start thinking of how we can better prepare our children to be the leaders of tomorrow. They are the ones who have the opportunity to cure cancer, to end global warming and to stop the bullying and embrace everyone equally. Instead of thinking how we can lower our current taxes, or force other countries into democracy, we need to first take care of our children, or everything we do, is for not.  

My elusive milestone

(Apparently the procrastination has taken over, and I am back to blog writing. Go figure)

These days, most of my posts are inspired by blog posts that I read by others.

Today, I was catching up on a little Primal Matriarch blog reading, and I came across this post entitled Mole Hill. And lordy, it was exactly what I needed to read today. I have been stuck at this weight that I am at, since about the end of June. I dropped a few pounds once initially starting the Primal Lifestyle, but recently I have put those few back on. And I have been beating myself up over it. I have been agonizing about what I am eating, and how much I am eating, and I’m starting to feel a little beat down again. Because the scale, the stupid inanimate object, is beating me down. And logically I know that it shouldn’t. Logically I know that my clothes are fitting better, that I am fitting back into more and more of the “back of my closet” clothes that I haven’t worn in years. I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror and I don’t grimace. But I still feel like the numbers should be better.

I am a big girl. I have always been and I will always been a big girl. As an adult I have gotten past my previous trauma of feeling like “a giant” and I have embraced the fact that those single digit clothes will never be a part of my wardrobe. I am simply not built that way. In 2001, when my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer that would 3 months later claim his life, I gained 20 pounds in that 3 months, and crossed the infamous 200lb mark, and haven’t looked back.

I would be happy to live the rest of my life in a size 12 or 14. Because I know that that is a healthy place, FOR ME, and it’s a place that I should be able to maintain. People around me sometimes say that I should strive for a goal a little higher. Who says that I can’t be a size 8 or a size 6, they say. They say, who says you can’t be 140 pounds (My goal is 180). But I am the one who knows my body. I am not making excuses for myself, I simply know that even when I was 16 years old, the smallest I ever got was a size 10. And that was after a heartbreaking break-up, I didn’t eat for two weeks, and I was playing lacrosse and running, everyday.

My goal, for now, is to break the 200 pound mark. I want to see my scale say something in the 100’s again. There were a brief few weeks, the last time I did weight watchers successfully, that I got myself back to that weight, but I was doing unhealthy things (a story for another day). Right now there is something elusive about that 199 milestone. It’s like my pot of gold at the end of my double rainbow or something. With all of the running, and all of the eating well, I should certainly be at like, one MILLION pounds lost, right, RIGHT?

My childhood "normal"

I realized after I wrote my post yesterday, that the way I felt during my “rebellion” with food, was actually more about my constant desire to feel “normal”. Don’t worry, this will be the last serious post for awhile.

As an adult, I am a totally average 5’6’’ height.  However, I have been 5’6’’ since about the 5^th grade. Growing up, I was off the growth charts height wise, and the doctors always thought that I would be close to 6 feet tall. I can clearly remember the height charts on the classroom doors in elementary school, particularly the height chart in first grade. I don’t remember how often we were measured, but I do remember that I was always in competition with a male classmate, to be the tallest 1^st grader. Somewhere between that height chart and 3^rd grade, every so often I was referred to as “Andre the Giant”. That was the beginning of not feeling “normal”.

In the 4^th grade, at my elementary school, you put on a huge 4^th grade production. And let me say, that play, it was kind of a big deal. All of the 4^th graders were involved, and ALL of the school came to see you (along with your parents). The tricky part was that you did not audition for a role, the teachers just put you where they thought you belonged. I was SO excited for that play. You see, I was going to be an actress. I had faithfully loved Princess Leia from about the age of 3. And I believed that when I grew up I would indeed become Princess Leia. When I came to understand that Princess Leia was not an actual person, and actually a role played by the actress Carrie Fisher, I quickly changed my life plan, and decided to become an actress. By the time the 4^th grade rolled around, I had thought about the 4^th grade play for years. I had already been very involved in theater and this 4^th grade play, this was going to be my big break.

There were many roles in this play, the starring role for girls being that of the “Princess”. Of course that was the role that I wanted. However, do you know what role I received? I received the role of the “Giant”. Yes, you read that right, I played the highly coveted, and much esteemed role of “Female Giant”.  I put my heart into that role, because it was still acting, and I was still in the play, but it was heartbreaking. It was heartbreaking to watch the petite blonde play the role of Princess, knowing that I was so very different from her. Suffice it to say that it wasn’t until my late 20’s that I was able to fully DEAL with that heartbreak. That role was a changing point for me. Any ounce of “normal” that I had ever felt went right out the window. After playing “Female Giant” I just felt huge.

(For the record, as an adult I realize that I was not a fat kid. I was not one of those kids who goes onto Maury Povich and weighs 100 pounds at the age of 3. I was tall, I was athletic, I was strong, and I was not “thin”. But not looking “thin” like the other girls in my class, not being able to wear the same types of clothes made me believe I was a Giant.)

When it came to food, I felt like the healthy way of eating also made me different. I just wanted to be “normal” to eat what all of the other “normal” kids around me were eating. I associated the healthy food with the abnormal way I was feeling, and in turn felt like because I was always a bigger girl, my only option was the healthy food. I longed to be like the other girls in my class, thin, average height, eating ho hos and oreos and not worrying about what those foods would do to my body. I longed to know what it felt like to live in a body that was just “normal”. So eating those “bad” foods was my way of feeling normal. Somehow it made me feel more connected to those girls that I desperately wanted to look like.

My parents promised me that everyone would catch up, that I would not be taller then everyone forever. And of course, they were right. But in the moment, in that role as the “Female Giant”, it felt like it would never happen. And so I learned to eat those “bad” foods to make myself feel better. Not as a crutch, not even as an emotional eater, but just to feel “normal”.