My love hate relationship with my body Part II

For Part I of this series, go here.

After my first baby, the rules of my control game changed. It was no longer about controlling what I did or didn’t eat.  It was all of a sudden all about getting back into my own damn clothes and the numbers on the scale.  My son was born in October.  By Thanksgiving I was back in my own jeans (size 8 ) and by Christmas I was back in my skinny jeans (size 5).  I was fueled by the envy of everyone around me who was amazed at how quickly I had gotten back to my pre-baby self.  I lived on the attention.

I spent the next 13 years playing this game.  My weight fluctuated between 115 and 120. I was still just as obsessed with the numbers on the scale and the numbers on the labels of my jeans.  And yet, every time I got pregnant, the games stopped, but started right back up again, the day I came home from the hospital.

By the third go round (after the birth of Newt) I recognized the pattern. I knew in my head that it was unhealthy, and yet I was helpless to let go of the control, and the attention it garnered from my friends.  It wasn’t long after Newt was born that my marriage to the girls’ dad changed.  To be honest, I always had a difficult time with PPD (thanks BPD) and their dad had his own version of PPD.  The fights were epic and our relationship was out of control.  The one thing I could control? My food intake.  And I controlled it with drill sergeant precision.  The numbers on the scale reflected just how happy or unhappy I was in my relationship.

I wasn’t happy in my marriage.  It wasn’t good.  So I sought my happiness in my weight.  I believed, wrongly, that if I could just get down to 100 pounds life would magically be perfect, fairy tale happy.  I starved myself.  I popped diet pills, I used laxatives.  I stopped just short of throwing up but only because I *hate* with a passion that burns brighter than a thousand suns to throw up.  I had my limits.  They were few, but I had them.

They day before I finally left the girls’ dad, I stepped on the scale and the number that day? 98 pounds.  I am 5’ 7”.  At this point? My size 3 jeans were hanging off of me.  I was wearing sweatshirts because I was always cold. I had no body mass to keep me warm.  That day?  I stood on the scale, saw 98 and just stared.  I had won the game!  I was under 100 pounds for the first time since I started this game all those years ago!  I had reached my ultimate goal.  I was winning.  The competitive voice in my head said “Way to go.. now lets see HOW FAR under 100 you can go!”.  The reasonable voice in my head said “Look you’re unhappy here. This is proof that this relationship will kill you.  Get out.  Save yourself and your kids.”

I listened to reason.

I left.

But the games didn’t stop.

I allowed myself to eat and put on enough weight to get above 100 pounds, but just barely.  I couldn’t give up all that I had gained (or lost as the case may be) but I couldn’t survive weighing less than 100 pounds.  Also?  When everyone you know is expressing grave concern about your weight you kinda can’t ignore it or them.  So you do the bare minimum, whatever it takes to get them to leave you alone, without giving up the game.

That was seven years ago.

Five years ago this August I met Brian.  Four years ago next month, I moved to be closer to him, get away from the girls’ dad, and give the girls (and me) a better life. I was still playing the games.  Food was still the enemy.  Brian’s family? Loved to eat.  They loved to cook, especially his dad.  And they ate real food.  Steaks, shrimp, crab, lobster, pasta, biscuits and gravy.  And drink? Margaritas or rum and coke, Mimosas or Bloody Marys for breakfast.  And the cheesecake.  Oh god the cheesecake.

I played my games for a while, but his family? Made it their mission to put some weight on me.  And when faced with all that food, all that glorious, fabulous food it’s hard to play the game.  Then Brian said “I love you.” and then promised me bling if I just gained some weight, and promised to love me for ever if I would just stop playing the games and get healthy.  And did I mention the cheesecake?

Slowly but surely the food, alcohol, Brian and his family won out over my rules.  I was safe, I was secure, and I was loved.  It was ok to eat.  And I ate.  And slowly, one by one, my outfits stopped fitting.  My jeans got too small, my shirts were too tight, and the numbers on the labels of my clothes got bigger and bigger.  There were days I would stand in the bathroom looking at my reflection crying for all I had lost (or gained…)  Crying because I had never seen myself at a normal healthy weight and I hated this ‘fat’ me.  Crying because I was losing the game I had played most of my life.  It was at these times Brian would tell me “I love you, and I love this, and you look wonderful, and healthy and please stop crying.”  I would tell myself it was enough. I would tell myself it was ok to be ‘fat’ because Brian loved me.

It wasn’t that long ago that I stood on the scale because absolutely nothing fit any more.  None of my clothes fit, I had started buying new clothes, with double digits on the labels.  The number on the scale? 160.  The only other time I had weighed anything close to 160, I was 8 months pregnant with a baby.  This time? There was no baby.  This time? I was fat.  Nobody commented on it. Brian’s family still told me I looked good. Brian still told me he loved me and the extra weight.  But that wasn’t enough. I didn’t love me.  I didn’t love the extra weight.  I had lost.

I knew I had to change things, but I also knew I couldn’t go back to my games again. I couldn’t go back to anorexia and lose the weight that way.  My girls are 11 and 14 now and they watch me.  They pay attention.  They would notice, they would see the games that I played and the dangerous ways I fought to lose the weight I so desperately hated.  I knew I had to change, but when you know there’s a cheesecake in the fridge that his mom bought just because she knew I loved cheesecake, it’s hard to change.

When Brian and I broke up in December, all of a sudden the steaks, and pasta three nights a week went away. Suddenly there was no cheesecake calling my name before I went to bed each night.  Now, there would no longer be biscuits and gravy and bacon and eggs for breakfast every Sunday.  There would no longer be lazy days spent watching television in bed, eating and napping a lazy Sunday away.  And without much effort at all, 30 pounds fell away.

I’m still not happy.  I am happier than I was at 160, but I’m not where I want to be.  I am playing the numbers game, but not obsessively like I did years ago.  Frankly, I like food, and I’m just too lazy to play those stupid games.  This time, I am watching what I eat and not eating nearly as much as I used to.  Just this weekend, since the weather finally warmed up, and we’re only a couple of blocks from the school, the girls and I went to the track and walked around it. That is something I can do every night.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss the game.  There are times I wish I had that kind of self control again, but I know this time? I have eyes on me, I have daughters that I influence and I don’t want them to live the life I lived with anorexia.