why i'll never be skinny

Me: college: 1993

I had a wonderful Thanksgiving. My tummy was happy-- full of warm, starchy comfort foods, and my heart was happy to be surrounded by loved ones. I enjoyed leftovers of my famous pumpkin cobbler with the ginger-maple whipped cream for three days afterwards. Following an extended weekend of indulging, I'd put on 3 pounds, which I knew meant wearing my *big pants* for the next week while I ran, kicked, and climbed it off.  It's all part of this continuing love/hate relationship I've had going with my body for about 22 years now...

When puberty finally caught me at age 15, I went from a boney kid to a hip-heavy 145 pounds in one summer. I stayed there for the next two years--eating both well (salads and fruit) and not so well (entire jumbo bags of peanut butter M&M's). I always stayed active dancing or biking, though not really giving much thought to the idea of what exercise was or what it did. My body was just comfortable where it was. I didn't even think to compare myself to any of my friends.

Fast forward:
When I married the last week of 1994, I was 103 pounds soaking wet. That number was a result of a solid year subsisting on 900 calories a day, and at least two hours of intense exercise--most of it involving sprinting the stairs of my college's stadium at midnight.

In October of my freshmen year of college, for some reason, I just decided I was fat and I wasn't going to be fat anymore. And I wasn't going to be fat anymore as quickly as possible.

 At my worst, my periods became sporadic, my hair started falling out in big clumps, and I nearly passed out every time I stood up. I tried binging and purging, but with no gag reflex, I couldn't throw up, which only served to tick me off and send me further restricting my diet, counting even the calories in the toothpaste I used and the stamps I licked.

 I can remember being so hungry that I'd pour sugar substitute and a little cinnamon in a bowl and eat it by licking my finger and dipping. I thought about food all. the. time. About eating it. About not eating it. About how I'd rather die than put on a pound, and yet obsessed about when I could eat my  next 100 calorie "meal."

People complimenting me on how I looked (which was actually not too bad since I always wore clothes too big for me) only fueled the fire.

Then, about 110 pounds, something changed...people stopped telling me I looked great and started telling me maybe I needed some help. A friend from church calmly suggesting I get help after I fainted in the foyer. An old roommate. My now fiancee. Thinking I was fine and that I'd prove them all wrong, I made an appointment to see a counselor on campus. The session did no good, in fact, all I remember is the counselor talking about corn on the cob and some other nonsense.

Months passed. Then a year. Then two. I got married. I settled into our new life. I didn't get any more formal help, but I did go inside myself and realize the motivating force behind it all was being in such out of control circumstances as were my late teenage and early 20's years.Eating (or not) was one thing I felt I COULD assert some power over...but it wasn't making me happy.  I started to let go of the compulsive need to control. I started to believe my  husband when he told me I was beautiful. I started to be ok buying larger clothes. And the scale settled upwards, once again, at 145.

The one thing about my years as an anorexic I took with me was that the alternative to fat or thin can be STRONG. I appreciate the beauty in going to the gym every day--or at least regularly--rain or shine, snow or wind. I know the machines will always be there for me, and that if I insert myself in them and go long and hard enough, they will nearly always make me feel better. I know I can take a kickboxing class and beat the crap out of someone in my mind, I can lift a weight a little heavier than I was lifting two months before, and I can lift it a few more times. I am fit enough that I worked out the day before having all my babies, and would be back and working out 2-3 days after.

Following my bout with Rheumatic Fever 3 years ago--the 6 weeks it forced me to stay in bed in excruciating pain, the 30 pounds (of post baby and depression from my mom dying weight) I lost in a month, and the resulting heart damage it left me with--my doctor told me I probably shouldn't do any more than walk or moderately exercise for the rest of my life. I couldn't and wouldn't believe that. And so I ignored his advice and have pushed myself harder and further than ever before, now running 25 miles a week in addition to classes and weights. Unlike college when I exercised just to be thin, now I do it because I cannot seem to live with being weak. And though I workout hard, and generally 5-6 times a week, it's still just a PART of my life, not it's entirity.

Currently, at 5' 7", I fluctuate between 135 and 145. When I'm heavier getting lighter, I feel focused and motivated. When I'm lighter getting heavier, I'm eating some marvelous food and generally feeling settled and content. Up or down, my pant size stays the same. I'm comfortable in my skin once more...mostly (I mean, I AM human :) )  I have been tempted to get all crazy about my eating again. It's hard competing against thin, beautiful women for the small amount of eligible men, and I think maybe the control over something would be nice again...Then I look back on my super skinny, size 2 photos and remember what it felt like to be consumed by food that I wasn't consuming. If the trade off for a  slight badonkadonk butt is a balanced life and the ability to eat a piece (or three) of pie....I'm ok with that.