It’s been a lifelong kinda thing.
Fat it is not about the numbers, not entirely. I’ve been heavier than I am currently, and had “fat serenity.” I’ve been thin and miserable.
Today, I believe I could stand a little of that particular misery, even just 10-15 pounds worth. But, I also remember being thin and feeling so small and vulnerable that I slept with pillows piled on top of me.
I’ve been overweight since about third grade. Prior to that, I was a scrawny kid, a picky-eater who didn’t “eat enough to keep a bird alive” and got tons of attention for it. I was also the spitfire. You riled me up, you better stand back. I wasn’t a spoiled child – there are no such creatures anywhere in our family. There were absolute consequences to my wild-child behavior. I just didn’t give a flip.
What happened to that kid? That’s a tough question to answer without spinning out a novel.
And anyway, what’s all this got to do with grieving?
It’s one thing to be in a long-term, loving, committed relationship with someone and to be living with an eating disorder. It’s a whole nuther thing to wake up one morning a middle-aged widow dealing with depression, PTSD, ice cream sandwiches, and forty extra pounds.
The “empty next” is looming. The boys start college in three months.
Another mom who’s been through the emptying of her house tells me that the year ahead might be kinda scary as I reinvent myself, and figure out who I am, and what I want — and that it might also lead to the best time of my life.
In order for any of this unfold, I have to be alive. Young and overweight is difficult. Older and overweight is dangerous – and painful.
Where does recovery begin – again?