Why am I feeling so furious with myself right now? Several reasons:
1. I haven’t lost any weight for twelve days. I’ve been so strict, I should have lost several pounds.
2. My husband has been sick in bed with the flu for four days. I love taking care of him and pampering him, but I lost my temper (I sure hope no one ever finds it!) and snapped out hurtful words. I’m sure I’ve made him feel guilty for being a burden; I hate myself for that.
3. I flew off the handle over my daughter’s messy room. Now I hate myself even more. After all, she’s only nine years old and has had a perfectly horrid example to follow all her life: me. So, I am overcome with yet more guilt, frustration, and self-hate. (Boy, that sounds like my cue to pig out.)
4. I’m mad that I have to baby-sit… and I’m mad that I’m mad. Baby-sitting is a fantastic way to earn money while staying home with my own children. I wouldn’t trade the time I spend with my own babies for anything. It’s watching someone else’s children that is driving me nuts. Right now my sights are high for the future. The joys and delights of thinness loom before me like a giant beacon of light. It’s hard being tied down to all these baby-sitting kids while I want to soar. While I want to write… and get my life organized.
I must concentrate on reasons to be thankful. I have many of those. I’m thankful my husband has not been diagnosed with a brain tumor, as in the case of my friend. I’m thankful none of my children are dwarfs, like those I saw on TV two nights ago. I’m thankful I’m enjoying a happy marriage to a loyal man instead of suffering through a miserable, ugly divorce.
I feel better now. It’s amazing how I allow relatively insignificant matters to depress me. So there are a few clothes on the end of my daughter’s bed—I should sweetly tell her to put them away. Why do I lose control in a moment, without any warning? Believe me, there’s a lot more out of control in this fat girl’s life than simply what goes into her mouth. In fact, what goes into my mouth has a lot to do with what comes out of it. Oh, to be escaping from that self-destructive cycle. I’m freeing myself from my negative, fat-induced behaviors. That will be as much of a joy as being thin.
Yesterday, one of my favorite day-care children, Marlie Wetzel, brought a bag full of chocolate hearts to share for a Valentine’s treat! We’re talking pure, rich, creamy chocolate here. Genuine chocolate, not chocolate-flavored. Chocolate that melts in your mouth and coats your throat and your senses with decadent delight —for maybe thirty seconds. Chocolate that then proceeds to coat your body with fat—blubbery, ripply, bouncy fat—and to coat your life with misery and hell. (Gee whiz! When I put it like that, it’s no wonder I didn’t eat any!)
Yet last year, the same little girl brought the same kind of chocolate hearts, and I—I’m so ashamed!—ate them all! All but one. I grudgingly divided it among the children. I had to. What would I do if Marlie’s mother asked how the children liked the candy Marlie brought?
My usual method of feeding my habit was to hoard goodies, sharing very little. “What the kids don’t know about, they can’t ask for!” I’d say to myself. That beats the heck out of what some fat parents do. I swear, a certain kind of parent seems to get some comfort in encouraging her children to “eat that last cookie” or “have one more little piece of cake.” Maybe she doesn’t want to be the only fat person in the house. Maybe she’s chagrined to be the only person stuffing her mouth with unnecessary, unhealthy calories. See that enormous lady over there with the pudgy little girl? What do you think she’s feeding her daughter? Baked fish and carrot sticks?
Are you in a frame of mind to handle an ugly opinion? I believe that parents who allow and often even encourage their children to overeat, or to eat highly fattening foods, are guilty of a most insidious form of child abuse. Think about it. The child who has been beaten or sexually abused has some moments of freedom. Not everyone knows of the hurt; few ever see the results. Occasionally, the child can enjoy herself and forget her personal trauma. But fat children? No relief, no hiding. Everyone knows. Daily ridicule. Being the last one picked for a team — every time. Losing every race. Wearing plain clothes. Every step reminding them that they are different because they waddle like ducks. Fat tummies keeping them from sitting comfortably close to their desks. Seeing the ugly reflection of fat cheeks in a mirror. On Valentine’s Day, they live that song, “For those of us who knew the pain of Valentines that never came.” Oh, my heart aches for all those Valentineless young people!
We all remember the fat kid in our classroom. Wasn’t he teased unmercifully? Think back for a minute. I dare you to close your eyes and really think back. I bet you can remember his name. You can still visualize him or her, can’t you? Wasn’t it pathetic? Now, I ask you, is not this needless misery an insidious form of child abuse?
Please do not think for a minute that I put parents of overweight children in the same category with parents who beat or sexually abuse their children. But someone needs to speak up for these fat children. The result of any kind of child abuse is unfair cruelty, unnecessary human suffering. If for this reason alone, I must stick to my diet: to protect my children from my horrible example.
Smoking parents or drinking parents occasionally refrain from indulging in their ugly weakness. But fat parents are forever a sign of overindulgence, a perfect example of lack of self-control. Look around: fat adults usually raise fat children. My parents sure did! I am not going to do that. The fat cycle stops here, with me. I refuse to be the reason for anyone, especially my own children, to glutton out!