Twenty days since an entry. I faithfully did my Daily Checklist for seven days. Allen commented on how nice it was to see me up, to see me happy. Then I fell off the wagon. Ha! To say “fell off the wagon” is like saying the Elephant Man had a slight puffiness under the eyes! I crashed off the wagon with all the sheer, raw energy of an atom bomb. I ate everything in sight… and out of sight. I thought of nothing but food: when I could eat it, where I could buy it, how I could make it, did I have the ingredients to make it? Eat, eat, eat. It’s hard work to maintain this physique! And this at a time when we’re flat broke! I can’t afford ground beef for a casserole, but somehow I always seem to have a dollar for a few sweets.
Am I finally brave enough to write about my sister Rebecca today? I don’t know. I do know that I don’t want to write about her. In fact, it will take extraordinary courage to do so. Okay, I’ll blurt it out: I hate Rebecca right now. She’s done the dirty deed; she’s committed the unpardonable sin. She has lost all her excess weight. She’s skinny, okay? And I hate her for it! And I hate myself for hating her. But I can’t help it. And I’m not going to lie about it.
It’s the curse of all fat people. We thoroughly dislike skinny people. You know, those waspish-waisted, thin-necked, firm-thighed vixens. The oh-I-better-not-have-dessert-give-me-a-diet-pop, 110-pound glamour girls. Oh, yes, we thoroughly dislike them. But give us a fatty that does it, that finally gets thin, that breaks the bonds of hell, and we feel hatred. I mean venom. Whenever we’re around the ex-lardo, we smile and try to act normal, but inside, undetected, our eyes narrow and send out arrow showers of hatred, of jealousy, of the desire for revenge. It’s as if this person attacked us by losing weight, which, in a way, she did. This ex-fatty is now a light to the world: “See, you can do it. I did it. Why don’t you just put down the food?” Oh, yes, I feel a real hatred for Rebecca. She is a vivid reminder of my own failure.
I hate every fat-free pound of her. I hate the way she polishes her nails. I hate the way she plucks her eyebrows. I hate the way she crosses her sexy legs. I hate the way she tosses her exotic red hair every time she runs a brush through it. I hate each new size-five outfit she buys. I’ve gained several pounds just trying to drown out my guilt for feeling hateful!
To be fair to myself, there’s a part of me that is also thrilled for Rebecca. She weighs 117 pounds. We’re talking high-school weight here. She’s gorgeous. She is wearing darling, stylish clothes. Her every step is almost a dance. It’s inspiring to look at her and think, “She did it. She escaped. She is beautiful again!” But I cannot deny the hatred I feel.
Oh, God, please help me this one day. I, too, need to be thin again. I’ve been so depressed, so hard to live with. Help me not to think of food every second today.
When I woke this morning, my first thought was, “What is there to eat? I hope one of the baby-sitting kids brought a treat to share!” Can you believe that? Those thoughts from a grown up woman who is practically suicidal in her desperation to lose weight. I want to be thin more than anything because losing weight is everything. It’s hope, it’s fun with my children, it’s being able to serve my family, my church, and my fellowmen. It’s better mobility, better attitude, better love life. It’s everything. Everything! Yet my first thought this morning was, “What is there to eat?”
September 26, 1991. That was over four years ago. I am happy to write that in those four years I have lost over 70 pounds, and I no longer hate Rebecca. I’m afraid she found every last pound she lost. And do you want my honest feeling? It’s ugly, but a part of me is happy. Almost vindictively so. For the first time in my life, she is much heavier than I am.
My dream Li to reach 125 pounds… and I would love it if Rebecca didn’t lose a pound in the meantime. Oh, I hope she gets skinny and gorgeous again someday… but not till I’m incredibly thin.