Tue, May-16-06, 16:34
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Senior Member
Posts: 2,581
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Plan: No grains, no sugar.
Stats: 001/045/525
BF:
Progress: 8%
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Keeping it off.
Thought this was very interesting piece, another example that there is no end of the rainbow when it comes to weightloss, as well as the mental things that make it all so hard.
Quote:
I had been summoned to The Show, the Holy Grail for authors and the fulfillment of all my mother's dreams. In a harried day of phone calls from Chicago, at the tail end of a snowstorm, the producers of Oprah decided, with 90 minutes to catch the last shuttle out of LaGuardia, that they might want me.
You'd think, on the eve of what could catapult my book to national attention, that I would be too nervous to eat.
I am never too nervous to eat.
As I grazed the basket of goodies in my expensed suite, I had two questions. First: Would Harpo Productions' bean counters go over my hotel tab and ask, "Isn't that the woman who lost all that weight? What are these charges for chocolate-covered almonds and honey peanuts doing here?"
Second: Why am I eating all this stuff? I might be on TV tomorrow!
What with Oprah replaying 24/7, everyone in America could count the bread crumbs on my velvet dress.
So much for the can-do kid who, after 42 years of obesity and missed opportunities, had lost 188 pounds and written a book about it. Passing for Thin: Losing Half My Weight and Finding My Self is an account of how I used my radical change in weight to turn a small, private world of eating and surviving into one as big as my former size 32 dresses. I climbed mountains! I swaddled myself in cashmere and had lovers; I went to Italy. I floated out of the gym after lifting weights, I sat in restaurant booths, wore bracelets, and crossed my legs and took the middle seat in airplanes. Then I used my weight loss to do the next impossible thing: I became an author. Being thin opened the doors to experience and intimacy.
National exposure, however, was an intrusion I hadn't considered. I am not a pundit or role model. You're going to be pilloried, Frances, I thought with the vehemence of a Sicilian curse.
And yet, there I was gobbling Oprah's $12 cookies.
I put on my pajamas and pulled back the comforter on the king-size bed. It was littered with wrappers. My cheeks were burning with shame and calories. Tomorrow, I promised myself solemnly.
And when tomorrow came, I smiled and joked, and I was gracious when I wasn't, after all, needed for the show. I ached not from disappointment but with the hangover of sugar in my muscles, the sour gas in my gut and the heartbreak of being a liar.
After a failed romance and a change of jobs, I drifted into relapse in March 2003, a year before Oprah. I had time on my hands -- and time, in my case, is the enemy. I filled it by studying where and how I went wrong, at the office, in the bedroom. Intellectually, I knew that the boyfriend was emotionally frozen and that my former employer was abusive and infantilizing, but I couldn't shake my ingrained conviction that I was responsible for everything that went wrong.
I stopped going to the gym; I started eating peanuts or rice cakes between meals. A little of this, a little of that, and one morning I announced to a friend that I saw no reason why I couldn't eat blackberry pie and ice cream, get the craving out of my system and return to my abstinence by noon.
I wasn't talking about a slice of pie à la mode. I was talking about a whole pie and a pint of ice cream.
A whole pie?
That summer I was reminded at every turn that I needed to be thin to promote my book. "You don't want those cookies, honey," my mom said as I carried off a stack I'd grabbed from the cooling rack. "Remember: You're going to be in Oprah's magazine."
She was wrong. I did want the cookies, and I didn't need reminding about Oprah. I sighed and took two more.
When I asked myself what I needed, I was met with an unconsoling barrage of hungers. I needed to know I was not disposable. I needed a resting place. I needed to know I had enough stuff to carry off the rest of my life -- enough talent, discipline and intelligence -- and enough sufficiency to protect me from more heartbreak. I needed enough hope to find the friends and man I mourned the lack of.
From August 1999 to August 2003, I'd gambled that losing weight would get me closer to all that, and I was told what to eat in those years. Now, after three years of maintaining my weight loss, I need to be told what to feel when everyone but me has an opinion of who I am.
I knew I -- not just my body but my very self -- was in trouble when I brushed aside a fleeting thought about how fat I looked with the answer, "Never mind. You'll like yourself when you're thin."
How does one live with self-acceptance as a future and an always-conditional state of mind? More pragmatically, in lieu of my size 8 clothes, my career depended on self-assurance. When asked, I admitted that I'd gained weight, adding that I had never presented myself as the poster girl of thin. I said this with poise, which is not to be confused with confidence. Poise is teachable; confidence is one of the elements missing from the periodic table, three parts self-respect to two parts experience.
To get to confidence, I was going to have to listen to my self-accusations and sit with the rejections. Maybe shame had something to teach me. My next recovery period from food addiction would be based on therapy, heretofore more a matter of coaching than peeling back the layers of self. My psychiatrist's and therapist's offices became the places I could air my feelings about myself in the hopes I could change my self-perception. "There's no point in getting depressed just because I'm depressed," I told my psychiatrist, who increased my morning meds anyway.
That October, on a blue-and-gold afternoon, I had Indian food with Lanie, a friend visiting from my hometown, Missoula, Montana. I described how depressed I was by my weight gain until she preempted me. "You've been very fat, Frances, and you've been very thin. Welcome to where the rest of us live."
I twiddled my fork in my plate of saag panir. I think of Lanie as being very tall and very thin, but a few months earlier I'd helped her pick out a dress. Her dress size was similar to what I was wearing that day. The event we shopped for had been a gathering of Montana writers, many of them old friends, all middle-aged. One had a rounder face than I remembered; another wore layers of a truly terrible print in the style that catalogs and store clerks describe as "flattering." Someone else was still very thin but looked drawn and brittle as age caught up with her bone structure.
These were women I'd long envied for their pretty thinness, and yet I'd been less like them when I was a size 8 than I was now.
At size 8, I had to admit, I was so self-conscious (and secretly, overweeningly proud of it) that often that was all I was. I could have programmed my answering machine to announce, "Hi, you've reached a size 8. Please leave a message and either the size 8 or Frances will get back to you."
None of the women at that party, or Lanie savoring her lamb kurma across from me, claimed their identities from their weights that night. They wanted to gossip, compare stories of their kids and discuss what they were writing, tell old jokes more cleverly than they had at the last party, and sample the desserts weighing down the potluck buffet.
I was not unlike them. Smaller by a size than Lanie, larger by a size than Laura, a little fresher looking than Diane. Of the Americans who lose weight, 95 percent gain it back within five years. I had gained a third of it back. Not all of it. To some extent, I had beaten the odds. I was stronger than the echoes of the boyfriend and boss allowed me to hear.
I was determined not to repeat the mistake of being, rather than having, a thin body. I'd lived through my size all of my life, so acutely aware and ashamed of my obesity that the likable things about me -- my sense of humor, my intelligence, talent, friendliness, kindness -- were as illusory to me as a magician's stacked card deck. As long as I defined myself by my body size, I would not experience those qualities for myself.
As fall turned to a snowy winter, I picked through the spiral of relationships that had unglued me the year before. I didn't blame the boyfriend or my boss for my relapse. I had been half of the problem; healthier self-esteem would not have collapsed under their judgments of me. In obesity, I had clamped my arms to my sides to keep them from swinging as I walked. I craned my body over armrests in theaters and airplanes, stood in the back of group photos to minimize the space I took up. I got thin and I continued to hide. Whatever reasons the boyfriend had come up with for not seeing me, I met with amicability and sympathy. Had I reacted honestly, even to myself, I might have ended the relationship. Instead, I'd gambled all my sweetness only to find out I was disposable. Likewise, I had not pressed my boss for an agenda of responsibilities from the start, nor had I clarified with her that her work and recreation styles frustrated and frightened me.
Slowly, I began to find toeholds in the avalanche of food and doubt. I worried about how fat I looked to potential readers and what I could possibly wear to flatter or disguise the 40 pounds I'd gained.
At the same time, however, I had become the canvas of makeup artists, stylists, photographers and publicists. They weren't looking at my stomach. "Give me a hundred-watt smile," commanded a photographer whose censure I thought I'd seen when I walked in. I licked my teeth and flashed a grin only somewhat longer than her camera flare.
"Wow." She straightened up at the tripod. "That really is a hundred watts. These are gonna be great."
When I saw myself in the magazine, my smile was, in fact, the focal point. When I began dating, at the age of 45, my smile was an attribute men commented on, but I hadn't really seen it until it was emblazoned on glossy paper. It was bigger, it seemed, than my face itself. I'd been a size 8 in my author photo, taken as my food plan was wobbling but not yet in smithereens, in June 2003. I was surprised to see I still looked like myself, apparently.
The power of my smile fueled me through more publicity, giving me a sense of authentic attractiveness that allowed me to enjoy the process. When I had a couple of days in Santa Monica between readings, I had a chance to assess and absorb at my own pace. Walking along the Palisades, I admired the sea-twisted pines and pearly mist funneling out of Malibu Canyon. I felt as lucky as I had once felt by being hired, by being loved, and I felt worthy of my luck because I appreciated the prettiness of the place, the serendipity that brought me there and my particular grateful awareness that knitted the moment together. I'd tried to rob myself of that by punishing myself for the boss and the boyfriend. You should not have treated me that way, I thought. The emphasis was on "me," and just then I knew who that was.
I looked around carefully. There was a family reunion going on, or so I assumed until I got closer and realized it was a cookout hosted for the park's lost and unfound citizens. I smiled to myself. How California. No gritty, iron-shuttered Salvation Army outposts here, no soup and Jell-O punishment for being a bum. No siree Bob. In California, the homeless are just one more variant on the Beach Boys.
I laughed out loud. I'm here, I gloated. I like my own company.
I was tired of the games -- with food, with hiding what I looked like under big clothes and my big smile, with waiting until I was a size 8 again to like myself.
I recommitted to chipping at my food addiction, but I let go of some of the rigidity I'd had in the first years of losing and maintaining my weight loss. "I want to be praised when I do things right, and I want to be forgiven when I mess up," I told the people closest to me. "And I want milk in my coffee."
It was a small list, but significant because it allowed me to fumble as I gained my momentum of eating sanely. Esteem, kindness, patience, forgiveness: By cloaking myself in these qualities, I could build a self that was not afraid of authority figures and charming men who have one eye on the door.
Maybe these attributes will curb the millions of things that make me want to eat, starting with seeing my parents or returning to Montana. I turn into the kid whose mother had to make her school uniform, whose big tummy stretched the plaid into an Escher cartoon; I become the sad, joking fat college student who was reading The Fairie Queene while her girlfriends were soaking up the half-naked wonder of being 20 years old. I think of my parents' kitchens, and my mouth waters for gingerbread and well-buttered toast.
I regress when I let people like Lanie, whose struggle is different, comment or take charge of what I eat.
"That's two entrees, Frances," Lanie pointed out when I said I wanted goat cheese salad and roast chicken for our first lunch together in Paris.
"Oh. Well, then, I'll have the salad I guess," I settled, grumpily. That's the way I eat, that's how I lost 188 pounds: vegetables and protein. I was allowing her to limit me to a smidgen of cheese, or insufficient vegetables, and allowing her supervision is how I got so mad -- that fatal elixir of anger and crazed desire -- that I bought all the chocolate in Charles De Gaulle for my untasting delectation.
I am the kid who, when told not to put beans up her nose, heads directly to the pantry.
"I have got to learn to tell people to stay out of my food," I reported to my therapist back in New York.
Then again, perhaps this is an evolutionary process rather than a one-time miracle cure. In 2003, I denned up for two months in Montana and ate. In 2004, I struggled again in Montana but I also did a lot of hiking, alone with my dog and with my niece. My slow pace didn't frustrate either of them. I went horseback riding and got a terrific tan while swimming every afternoon. My thighs did not chafe in the August heat along the Seine, and I was thrilled to cross the Appalachian Trail later that autumn. I had spells of disappointment and fear from the way I ate, but I was living in my body, on my body's terms.
It's a small world I've pulled from the wrappers, boxes and crumbs in the past two years, but a very human one. I've seen my family, close friends and therapists hold on to a stubborn belief that I would come through this. They loved me enough to countenance my mistakes and let me start over. Each day, I venture a little farther from the safety of food, and my courage comes from understanding that I am a lot like a lot of people -- a family member, a friend, a dog owner, a recidivist, a middle-aged woman, a writer who got a good rhythm going and forgot to brush her hair. There is safety in numbers.
Depression and relapse would have to wait for a different excuse than my size.
I am ready to hope again.
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http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/pto-3642.html |
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