about weight

My neighbors downstairs baked something cheesy tonight. The delicious scent of slightly burnt cheese is so tantalizing, so strong that I can almost taste it.

It smells like I'm six years old, and my mom just pulled a casserole of macaroni and cheese from the oven. The kitchen is too warm so a window is cracked, and the cold air breezes around to my seat at the dinner table, and I shiver. I'm hungry, and I'm rocking back and forth, humming a song, and braiding the white fringe from our green tablecloth - down low in my lap, so my mom won't see and scold. We're having beets with dinner, and their rich smell mixes with the cheddar cheese air. I like beets because their juice turns my macaroni bright pink. We settle at the table and hold hands; not praying, just taking a moment to be glad we're together.

Food and good memories are tightly interwoven in my mind, apparently.

My family disintegrated when I was ten years old, and that's when I started gaining weight. In middle school, I persuaded my parents to let me stay home by myself after school. Most days I'd eat a bag or two of popcorn and have three or four cans of Pepsi while watching a movie and doing my homework. Sometimes I'd have Rice Krispie treats instead. I could make and eat a whole batch before my mom got home from work, then have dinner.

I knew it wasn't healthy food, and I knew I was getting fat. My life was crazy. I had no control over anything else, so I ate. To hell with the consequences. To hell with the dawning realization that I would never reach my dreams. To hell with my shattered, false family. To hell with the boys who taunted me and nicknamed me "Moose" and taught my heart that it would never be loved. Well-meaning friends couldn't dislodge that truth, counselors couldn't convince me otherwise. Singing got the emotion out but made the taunting at school worse. Eating. Just eating and television and meaningless good grades. And eventually razor blades lined up on the edge of a bathtub. And when my cowardice kept me alive, more food.

When I look in the mirror and see my fat, I see the scars from the tumultuous years. God rescued me and has worked miraculous healing in my mind, but the weight is a scar that has not faded.

I want to lose weight. I've wanted it for more than sixteen years. I regret getting fat, but I can't hold it against that girl who had no other anchor than food. I am sad for her. But I'm sadder for the six-year-old at the table with macaroni and cheese and braided tablecloth fringe and family. She had such imagination, so many vivid, colorful dreams. I want her dreams to come true.

I'm learning to live again for her sake. And while abundant life is more important than losing weight, the truth is that I want both... and that I believe both are possible.

Tonight I wrote this blog post instead of numbing my mind.

It's not yet the life that little girl imagined, but I'm getting closer.

Hope is fierce.

And beautiful.