I dreamed about my first blog "A New Day for Fat Girls" last night. It was a happy dream, full of positive vibes. I awoke feeling pretty good, which is a significant improvement over the last few months. Writing that blog made me feel 20 pounds lighter, because of the enormous "swoosh" of relief that I felt immediately after posting it. Could it be that I want to dream again?
Does anyone remember when they could "program" their dreams? My eight year old head would hit the pillow at night filled an agenda of dreams about the circus, Disneyland, and my Barbie dolls come to life. I was front and center in every dream, feeling happy, secure, and loved. I'm not exactly sure when this ability to order up dreams stopped, but when it did, it stopped cold.
More than likely, things changed when my parents broke up. After years of trying to live with my mother's odd behavior, my father left us. I was 12 years old, the oldest child, and devastated. Worrying had replaced dreaming. Responsibility had replaced fun. Eating had replaced love.
Ah, yes, the stories of prepubescent fat girls with daddy issues. We think, "here we go again" and stop listening to ourselves. But has being overweight denied us credibility, even to ourselves? Have we have bought into the fat girl stereotype just like everybody else? I'm beginning to realize that, for me, the answer to that question is yes, and I don't like that one bit.
Here's a little background, so this revelation makes more sense: My mother was addicted to sleeping pills and tranquilizers of several varieties. She was incapable of holding down a job. I was the designated grown up in the family. Life was a very serious affair for me. So here I was, raising my two younger siblings, and living with my drug addled mother, who also had a penchant for jugs of grocery store wine, and I traveled to visit my father, who had remarried and was living with his new wife and her two children.
During one of these visits, my father and stepmother took me to a doctor who prescribed diet pills for me. That was probably the day that my weight took on its present power over me. It definitely became the focus in my relationship with my father, at least to me. I perceived a new truth; that I was not acceptable, not even to my father.
I want to be angry at any adult who can possibly think that an unhappy twelve year old can be helped with a trip to a diet clinic. But I can't be angry, I can only try to heal the pain that this has caused me by changing the beliefs that were created by an immature mind under difficult circumstances.
Some children may be built of stronger stuff, with the ability to see beyond what a diet doctor implies about one's worth. Unfortunately, I was not one of those children. And that is what is important here- children are not born with adult reasoning. Enough said.
As we travel through this world, each day is its own challenge. I would like to add yet another challenge, for all of us, weight weary travelers. The challenge is to look at all of it, all the stories we remember, and pick out the most painful ones. Pick them out, and try to understand what they can teach us now, not as children, but as adults.
My personal plan is to dig deep, dig deeper, and then come out the other side as a woman who can plan leading roles in her own dreams.
Anyone who wants to join me is more than welcome.
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