My Eating & How it has Changed

We are at the Mercy of our Mother's cooking in our childhood.  Good or bad, home-made or bought, it is the kitchen we grow up in that defines our eating habits.

I have watched documentaries about eating and losing weight.  The key to that is uncontrolled eating.  They would talk about scarfing down whole pizza's or gorging themselves on a whole chocolate cake.  The need for multiple hamburgers or sandwiches to feed their mouth or something deeper.  I do not recall that being an issue for myself.  The behavior I will admit to was hiding food and I will tell you why.  I had a large family full of boys, if you didn't eat the food the second it was placed on the table then you were not going to get any at all.  No one would save you a piece.  It was all for one, all the time and who ever got the most was the winner.  Such gloating if I got a snow cone and my brother didn't.  Ha Ha! I have been able to get over that attitude, but I still feel anger when I go to the cupboard for the snack I saved all day only to see it eaten. Ahhhh!  Now that is frustration.

I remember going on my first "paid for" diet when I was 8 years old.  Think about that.  Would you mother's out there do that to your daughter?  I look at my nieces and would never dream of putting them on Weight Watchers, but I knew my mother was being pressured by the doctors.

Plus my mother has here own problems.  I was unaware as a child that she considered herself fat.  Hollywood is a cruel place if you aren't a toothpick.  She had admitted to being an over-eater so in an attempt to block that She had gone to "Diet Center" herself and lost around 40 pounds, so I ended up going with her.  I was into it.  Being special and getting to eat "special" food.  I remember a bottle with spices in it that had a "Diet Center" label on it that only Mom could use and now I was allowed to use it.  It really did seem like a good idea and I follow what they told me to do.  As I said my mother lost 40 pounds.

 I lost.....nothing.

 All the councilors were in shook when they looked at the scale.  They had promised me a present if I lost 10 pounds.  The tears were rolling down my checks.  I did the exercises.  I ate the way my mother told me.  Not a pound shed.  Then some one thought to measure me.  I had dropped inch after in on my arms, thighs and waist.  I still do not know why it did not show in the scale, but they fudged the rules and let me have the gift for smaller measurements.  I continued like any normal 8 year old.  I ate lunch at school, a snack when I came home and dinner.  Most nights we had a treat before going to bed.  I did not sneak food at night.  I did not break into the fridge,  None of our cupboards had locks, but I became fatter and fatter.

It took me a while to figure it out , but I am terrible with portion control.  I did not eat whole pizzas, but I did have four pieces instead of  two.  If I made myself a PB & J sandwich, I made two.  My eyes should have been bigger than my stomach, but I didn't feel full unless I felt FULL.  I still have large portions, it is a mental thing, but I have learned to eat less meals.

I had been accepted in my first school.  How I looked was never a source of the childhood interactions and I grew up with a lot of confidence.  I was one of the only girls on our large city block and I considered myself a Queen bee.  I walked to and from school, rode bikes, got in trouble,  It wasn't until I moved to Simi Valley that I felt different.  I heard there were roving groups of girl gangs back in Burbank and I longed to be back, because I knew I would be one of the leaders bodyguards. I knew that my weight would have been as asset.  Unfortunately,  I would probably be maiming and stealing and hurting people, but if I was still in Burbank I knew I would have been loved.

Not so in Simi.  The girls were so bad I had a very hard time attending church.  I could not take the girls I had to deal with at school every day, suddenly being wonderful loving daughters of God toward me at church.  I hid in the car and refused to come out my mother mortified by my behaviour, but I could not explain my revulsion to the other girls.  The hypocrisy at church was blinding.  You have the right to hate me, just do not do it with a smile on your face.  I can not stand hypocrites.  I think one of the reasons I still have a friend from that time is that she was in the grade behind me, so when she was kind to me at church I could accept her kindness as reality not some obligation.

So my outside interactions shrunk when we moved, but we moved to a house with a pool.  Thank you, thank you, thank you Daddy for buying a house with a pool it save my sanity.  He complained often about the time and expensive of that pool but it save my life.

I felt beautiful and graceful in the water.  I was one of the fastest summers beating even my brother at laps.  Our pool was an accident settlement, so it was much bigger than most.  I did lap after lap.  I swam over a 100 laps a day doing the breast stroke, back stroke. side stroke and the crawl.  I could hold my breath for over a minute and I was apart of a synchronized swim team for a good two years or more.  I stopped because I fell out with the coach.  In the summer I woke up at noon got on my bathing suit and I swam til midnight all the time doing laps and water aerobics.  I write all of this because I did not lose a pound.  I only got bigger. 

So during this time of constant exercise my mother wanted me to attend Over eaters Anonymous.  It works on the same principles as the 12 step of Alcoholic Anonymous, same book, same sayings.  It's just that I never felt like the people in the group.  I did not feel like an emotional eater.  There were some wackos too.  One poor woman was obsessed with potatoes. Weird Al had brought out a song "Addicted to Spuds" and I thought it was the strangest idea.  Then I had to sit and listen to her drooling over potatoes. I walked out of the meeting dying for McDonald's french fries.   I did what OA asks and that is to only have three meals a day, which is hard for me since I don't like to eat breakfast.  My stomach needs a couple of hours to be ready for food in the morning, so to eat that meal was very hard on me.  It is a great program.  I have seen success from other in my circle and my own mother.  I just never felt like an over-eater.  I do not use food to make myself feel better.  I was in an eating program, I went to 4 years of marching band.  I participated in PE, hated it, found it to be embarrassing and competitive.  I went on hikes with my peers.  The point is I moved.  I kept up with my peers and my body did not hold me back.  I didn't sit around doing nothing all day like I am now.  I was active and living and I weighed over 300 pounds!  Why?

Here I am after years of swimming.  My family in '93 right before I graduate.

 

I did not want to go to school any more.  I was so angry and hurt by the time I graduated High School that I did not have the motivation to continue.  My mother literally shoved me into the car and drove me to the closest community college.  I sat there refusing to talk.  "You better help me pick your classes." She warned me.  "I might not pick anything you like."  That got me out of my funk.   I was treated completely different in College.  People stayed away and the overt torture ended.  I was able to form friendships in my classes, but not many,  It was a lonely existence, but I have grown used to it and even prefer it to a lot of people.  I would much rather have one true friend then worry about a group.

 

The big change came to my eating when I was dirt poor living on my own in Montana and Wyoming.  I will tell how I decided to go on a mission, but for now I was called to the Montana mission which still included parts of Wyoming.  You have to give up many things to be a missionary.  Things may have changed, but when I went on a Mission you were required to pay a monthly amount, most saved up for it or your family paid.  The church took the money and paid the rent & utilities everywhere you were assigned.  They paid for Doctor visits and if you were lucky, for a car.  Every month we would receive an allowance into our bank account to pay for food and at that time gas.  You tried to come to the mission with all the clothes you needed, so that small bit of money went to what was important.  I am very good with money.  I never had a "real" job so I have figured out how to save and what to cut costs on.  A big treat that disappeared on my mission was soda.  We drank soda all the time at home.  I could not afford it and the water out of the tap was free.  Thankfully it was some of the best water I had ever tasted.  At home you took your life in your hands if you drank out of the tap, but I came to love the water in the wilds of Montana and it made a huge difference.  So being very poor if I felt hungry I would drink a glass of water with ice and I came to find out that bang!  I was not hungry, but thirsty.  That slow process began retraining me.  If I felt hungry I drank first and if I still felt hungry I could tell what my body really wanted and I would be satisfied after a reasonable amount of food.  Some nights I would be dieing for a good juicy steak, but another night I would feel the need for a salad.  I began giving my body what it wanted and feeling satisfied for the first time in my life.  I didn't have to eat the whole bag of chips.

 

This new thinking served me well when I returned home.  I made my family get a water service that I liked.  It was expensive, but so worth it.   I lost the 80 pound in my golden age of Fashion Design college and then I plateaued.  Nothing.  I wasn't as active so I thought I had to be more aggressive with my eating, plus my mother was in full blown diabetes with insulin and I thought that I was heading there myself.  So my mother joined a group called C-HOW, it is a more structure version of Over eaters Anonymous with a strict eating plan.  I went two years without sugar and white flour.  Do you understand what I did!  Two hold years without any sugar or white flour.  I ate a one egg omelet with a little cheese in the morning, cottage cheese and fruit for lunch and then a dinner of all the vegetables I could eat and a small amount of protein.  No Birthday Cake! No pie! No bread! For TWO YEARS!

 

I realized I had another problem with my thinking.  I became obsessed with whatever I denied myself.  If I was craving sugar and told myself it was off the list, then all I would want was a sugar fix.  I couldn't concentrate on my work.  I thought of nothing else and then when I gave in to the craving I would gorge on it.  Next came the beating myself up.  For me I learned that when I wanted something to eat it was fine for me to do it if I kept it in moderation.  That became the key to my life. Moderation.

 

 I did not lose a pound!  That was they only time I was very upset at my sister-in-law and it was not her fault.  She went on the program with my mother and the pounds melted off.  I pasted a happy smile on my face because she deserved all the praise in the world.  She was losing weight!  Fabulous! Spectacular!  I was ecstatic for her pants were falling off.  Meanwhile I locked myself in my bedroom because I swore I would not eat any pizza and there it was lying on the kitchen table.

 

I did not know what to do.  I could not figure out why I was denying myself with no visible effects.  I became an agoraphobic during this time.  It felt to me every time I went out the door a rude comment would come my way.  "Look at that fat lady, mommy!"  I heard that shouted out of the window of a house on my block as I walked by.  It was so awful to swallow the hurt, but it was an innocent little girl.  

Here I am in 2002 after my biggest weight loss. 

When I finally broke away from my family I turned to smaller amounts of better food.  I loved TRADER JOES!  Too expensive to feed a family on, but as a single working girl I was able to get fresh fruits and vegetables, homemade soups, salads and sandwiches.  They had beautiful one person frozen meals that I could make on the stove top.  It was perfect for me and I loved it.  Not a pound lost.

 

Now I am sick.  I do what the doctors say.  I take my meds, do the insulin shots and I have terrible eating.  I am doing one meal and a snack and that is still probable too many calories.  I move so little.  I was getting in trouble for not taking enough insulin and for a while I was very afraid to get a low blood sugar attack since I would go days without eating, I felt so sick.  I have now realized that I need to take my whole does even if it means with one meal, but I separated it between two most of the time.  There is nothing worst then the weakness and shock of low blood sugar.  It is an attack that befuddles the mind and it feels like your whole body is shutting down, which makes it easy to have high blood sugars.

 

 

I have tried and tried and tried so hard to lose weight.  I refuse to become obsessive or have losing weight be my only focus.  I think if I got gastric bi-pass something would go wrong and I would die on the table.  I have found that I am in the 1% of procedures that go wrong.  Even in my eye surgery the doctor had to destroy more than he thought and I now have cataracts.  The more I have done what the Doctor say, the worst my life has become.  I do try to do what is right for me.  What ever that is.

Doctors- The Bain of my Existence Part II

Now the recent Trials.

I do not like to repeat this story over and over, so I will write the whole saga down and refer others to this page.  I am going to tell you what the Doctors have told me and it isn't pretty.

I will explain how later, but I managed to loose 80 pounds.  It did not make much of a difference, in fact it made quite a few things worse.  My weight is carried in my belly and that was where most of difference was noticeable.  My belly was no longer a round Buddha-look but began to hang down forming a huge apron of skin.  My thighs would bang into my stomach as I walked and I would get sores under the folds of skin, but despite that I experienced my golden age of life during these years from 1999-2008.  I was begged to go to a Fashion Design college.  It was not an idea that ever entered my head and a scout for the school found me.  I learned how to present myself.  I found the benefit of beautiful clothing and how to dress my strange body.  I was complimented on my looks from complete strangers in the train station on my way home from school on the weekends and I knew that I had made a tremendous amount of progress in myself.  I got the job costuming and life was good.

No Doctors were there to spoil it.  I was able to get a job as a Behavior Therapist helping Special Needs Children through word of mouth.  I finally had something to connect to other people with.  They did not understand the costuming, but everyone understood working with Mentally different children and their behaviours.  I very much felt my body once again holding me back from what I knew I could accomplish.  With the Behaviour Therapist job came a steady paycheck with all the government benefits attached and that included  Health Insurance.  I wanted a Tummy Tuck.  I was tired of being smothered at night by my own belly fat. 

I asked a friend for a Doctor recommendation, set the appointment and went, pleased that I had done so much to better my life.  I sat on the table when he walked in looked at me up and down and said bluntly, "You need a Gastric Bi-pass."  I was livid.  He did not look at my belly.  He did not look at all the work I had done on myself.  He did not do any tests before he made this statement.  He judged me in one glance and he was wrong!  For the first time in my life I stood up for myself.  "How Dare you!"  I replied. "You know nothing about me.  You know nothing about my past or my background and you judge me by what you assume to be true.  I came to you for help.  A Gastric Bi-pass my be right for me, but why don't you consider other options first."  I was yelling and trembling and my anger toward the audacity of doctors shot me through with adrenalin.  I stomped out.

I found another Dr that was willing to help.  He started the tests and it was with him that I found out the Diabetes had become full blown even with all my changes to my diet.  And this is when the prescription upon prescription started.  I had a bad reaction to all of them.  I began to see the Dr every 2 weeks and I was sicker then I had ever felt in my whole life.  The pills did not work and when I would say that I was having adverse affects he would give me a look, but he began to give me samples first and we would see how I reacted to it.  I took my blood sugar every day three times a day and it hurt and was painful, but the worst was the metal effects.  I would have high blood sugar in the morning, which is very strange since I would not eat for hours, the numbers lower in the afternoon and jump a bit for dinner.  I was vigilant with my eating and my behavior and the numbers would still be high.  Then the Dr would add more useless pills.  I hated it.  I was so exhausted with having a normal working schedule.  I was getting sicker and sicker and I was doing everything the Doctor asked of me.  I wasn't losing anymore weight and my feet were swelling and beginning to adversely affect me.  They were going numb and the Doctor said there was nothing that could be done,

I went forward to get permission for the Tummy Tuck after months of jumping through hoops and writing letters, sending in records, talking with my Dr.  the insurance company said no.  It felt so wrong.  I wasn't doing the surgery for vanity reasons, it was hoped that taking the belly off would jump start me into loosing more weight.  I admit I did want to be pretty too,but I knew no amount of surgery would change how I felt about myself.  I asked how much it would cost.  There were all kinds of special offers from the  hospital and Dr and the cost was more than half of what I thought.  I had the credit and I had a job and I wanted to feel better, so I went for it.

Meanwhile, I found a nurse to live with when my parents had moved to Virginia and I was pretty much alone.  The day before my surgery I got a letter from work saying that I had been laid off.  I wasn't surprise, a mass amount of teachers and aids had been laid off because of the financial crisis in California.  I thought about canceling, but figured I could get another job in Virginia when I had healed. 

I had the surgery,  The doctor took off over 20 pounds of my belly.  I saw my feet when looked down for the first time in my life.  It was so wonderfully freeing.  I looked the same Becky, so I was grateful I had done the surgery for the way I felt.  I began healing well, except for one problem.  Right before I was going to fly to stay with my mother I found myself covered in liquid.  The nurse I was staying with saw a hole had opened up in my stitches.  I went to see the surgeon to make sure it was safe to fly.  He said to let the fluid drain and the hole would close on it's own.   It did after a month, but then I felt the fluid gather in my belly.  I was experiencing lots of pain at this time, but the fluid would fill my stomach up until I felt like I was going to burst.  I commented that I felt pregnant with a water baby.  I returned to the surgeon and he stuck a large needle in me and would draw out an orangey fluid every week.  His nurse would ask me every week if I felt better and every week I felt a little worse.

During these months I was receiving a California disability every month so I was able to survive if I was careful with my money.  I could still shop and get myself food.  I was unable to bend and stairs were becoming more difficult to propel my body up.  I lost my health insurance before I healed enough to move to Virginia and my own Dr became very sick having to leave his pratice all in the same month.

The surgeon was the only medical professional I could go to.  The fluid wasn't stopping, so he put a drain inside of me to close the pocket he believed had formed from the surgery.  It is a normal side affect and he thought I would be better once the pocket was closed.  I became sicker.  Finally he took the tube out and told me to go to the emergency room something was very wrong.

I went to the emergency room where they decided to admit me to the hospital.  I kept telling them I did not have any health insurance.  I did not have any money.  I could not pay.  They kept saying they would help me.  I stayed in the hospital for a week.  That is when they found out my kidney's were working at only 13%.  My blood pressure was out of control.  My feet were killing me.  They could not find a cause for any of my problems. so it was all blamed on the diabetes.  At the time my blood sugar was out of control because of the loss of my Dr.  I went on insulin and a billion pills that I said did not worked. They released me to a harried clinic Dr that was busy trying to convince patients that he did not need Oxycontin for a skin rash.

I had problem after problem.  I kept paying to see the kidney Dr I had met in the hospital.   After a month of appointments she sat me down and we had an honest conversation.  I asked her if I would ever feel any better.  She said no.  I asked  her if I would ever be able to take care of myself and she said no.  My kidney's are functioning at a failing level.  She said I was in stage 4 of kidney failure  and stage 5 is dialyses.  There were no pills that would fix me.  She predicted my kidney's would fail in 2 years and I would live on dialyses for another 2 years.  The news sucked.  I was told in a very nice way that I was going to die.

I had a year of disability.  I lived off of that and resigned myself to the fact that I would have to move back in with my parents.  I did not want to move to Virginia.  I knew that the section of small town the house was located in was not right for me.  I knew it would mean my life was over and I fought moving back.  I lost.

Finding a Dr here has been a nightmare.  We are lucky enough to have a hospital in the area, but every Dr.  I called did not have an appointment for over 3 months.  I went blind a few months after moving in.  My mother knew someone at church who was recovering from a serious eye problem and see refer ed a Retina specialist to us.  We had to drive an hour away, but he fit me in.  Dr, Vogel is the kindest man I have ever met.  He took one look in my eyes and knew I would go blind if he did not help me.  I told him I did not have any money and he did not care.  He performed over ten thousand dollars of surgery and procedures on me.  I paid him the cost of his lunch.  They sent a bill with the tally of costs and at the bottom it asked me to pay $8.  I sent the money to them right away and as I joke I told him I would have paid at the office because he made me pay for a stamp.  He laughed and then proceded to deducted the 47 cents from that appointments bill.  He is a great man and I will do another entry on him, but both of my retinas tore, the blood filling my eyes blocking my vision.  It had nothing to do with the diabetes or my other problems.  He said it happened with those who had my vision problems.  I finally got my blindness resolved.  My brain has learned how to compensate.  I do not drive though, I amquite scared.  I am not good at telling how far away objects are and that tends to freak me out. 

I began having trouble trouble breathing and I was throwing up constantly.  My mother became worried my kidney's were failing so my parents took me to the hospital emergency room again.  My kidney's were stable, but I coughed a certain way when he came back into the room, which began another line of questioning.  I was again admitted to the hospital, this time a year later with congestive heart failure.  I was drowning in my own fluids.  From that visit I learned they think there is something wrong with my heart,but they can't do anymore test because the dye I would have to drink would destroy the last functions of my kidney's.  Stuck between a rock and a hard place.

I went to the kidney Dr again here in Virginia and he was just as rude and mean as they ever were to me.  Thankfully he said in a blunt way that there was nothing he could do for me unless I changed in front of my mother.  She know I had tried.  I felt that she got the message that I was very sick.  I was dumbfounded that after all this time here was yet another Dr telling me that my problems were all my fault.  I asked what he planned to do for me.  He did not give me any constructive answer and I knew  not to waste my money on him.

Now I finally found a Dr that is willing to try his best for me.  I know his only response will be another pill, but he found one that actually works to get the fluid out and for that I am grateful.  He tries to listen to me. but I feel like he gets overwhelmed with all my symptoms and have to be careful about the information I give to him.   He is monitoring my kidney's and fluid.  I do not feel that my problems are being addressed.  I do think something went a little screwy with the surgery, but I don't know if I haven't ever healed or if the pain is from a mistake.  I live in a balancing act.  I loose the cushion of fluid and a deep ripping pain starts.  It feels like two teams are playing tug-o-war with ropes straped to either side of my stomach or with too much fluid I am drowning and ready to pop.  But all the time there is a constant overwhelming exhaustion.  I can not stand.  I feel like I have a 20 pound weight attached by a string to the back of my bellybutton.  I stand and my knees buckle from the strain of being pull to the floor.  My feet are so bad I can't stand to look at them.  I wobble from the strain and from the fact I can no longer feel my toes, so they don't grip.  I hate to wear shoes because it feels like heavy nubs on the end of my knees. 

Sleep constantly eludes me.  I found out after reading an article I am on Mars time.  I can't eat, which is wreaking havoc on my insulin.  I am a prisoner in this house hardly ever leaving because it is so impossible.  I can't shop for food. It is very difficult to go any restaurants.  I am unable to go to church because of the combination of getting up for it and sitting in uncomfortable seats for hours.  My life is my computer and if I have enough motivation, my projects.  I wonder every night as I watch the sun rays fill the room why I am even still alive.  The suffering is unbearable and beyond belief.

I keep two thoughts in my head.  One- Something could change.  I do not have any faith in that thought, but I have no idea what kindness could come my way and I need to be open enough to accept it.  And Two-  I am doing the best I can.  I do each day.  I do what I can and I am not being lazy or taking from others.  I am still trying to better myself even with the obstacles I face.

Doctors- Tne Bain of My Existence

The untold trauma of my Medical History.  It is so ridiculous that I have to put it into a little steel box within my head.  Nothing is straightforward, nothing is understood.  Doctor's thought they were Gods as I grew up.  I have to admit that my mother's lack of defense is one of the harsh bitter realities that I try very hard not to hate my parents for.  I feel like they should have stood up for me and told the Doctors that I was trying my best.  I know that they have their side of the story, but my parents didn't question the medical professionals.  I certainly didn't question them and now they are lazy, lazy bums, who rely on their tests.  I don't want to do research on the Internet trying to diagnose myself.  I want a Doctor who listens to the problems, reads my medical history, talks to other Doctors and tries to find the root of the problem.  I do not want another prescription.  I do not want more pills.  I do not want to dull the symptoms all the while suffering.  I want to fix the problem.

I had medical insurance until my twenties.  I saw the Doctor regularly and then something started to go wrong.  Nobody told me the problem, but I began going to the Doctor more often and then the tests started.  They would take so much blood each visit it became a joke. On one visit I counted the number of slips the Dr had given me to take to the lab.  He wanted over ten vials of blood, even at my young age I knew that had to be a lot since they normally asked for 3 or 4 vials.  I stepped into the lab trying to keep a good attitude,  I had given blood so often I knew which arm was best and to look away when they put the needle in.  I was able to watch the blood squirt into the vials without a problem.  I was watching as he put vial after vial onto the needle and I made a benign comment like, "Boy, the Dr sure wants a whole lotta blood.  I hope I don't run out!"  We both laughed at my stupid ten year old joke until my vein collapsed and the blood stopped.  I felt my face fall which mirrored the sinking feeling in my stomach.  "I don't have to do it again, do I?"  I asked in horror.  The lab tech quickly reassured me that he could divide the blood he already took into the unfilled vials.  That experience has always stuck with me and told me how serious my problem must be.

The other test that has hung over my head was getting an ultrasound.  I was also around ten for that one and I was incensed that I had to participate in a test meant for pregnant women,  It was humiliating to have to drink water all morning and then not be able to pee.  They explained that they needed my bladder to be full, so they could bounce the waves off of it and see what was happening in my ovaries.  When you are a little kid with no experience in reproduction and no desire to know anything like that, this proposition was quite disgusting to me.  The very worst was how long they made us wait for the test.  I got through it and felt like I could fill up a swimming pool by the time they let me go to the bathroom.

At some point and I don't know when the words were actually said to me, I was diagnosed with Poly-cystic Ovary Disease, which has since been renamed Syndrome or P-COS.  I found out that the difference between a disease and a syndrome is knowing the cause and how to treat a disease while a syndrome is still a mystery and Oh! What a mystery I was to them.

Meanwhile puberty hit like a hammer and the effects of P-COS became clear.  What they thought at the time was causing my trouble were the large cysts in my ovaries that caused a blockage of estrogen in my body.  I had large amounts of testosterone which reeked havoc in horrible ways.  The one that is the most obvious is the full beard I could grow at the age of 12.  It makes me cry to write about it because it is the strongest barrier to ever being close to another person,  No matter how sharp the razor is or the red bumps of irritation from going over my face there is stubble, irritating, harsh stubble.  My saving grace is having red hair which is lighter than most so I can get away with having the 5 o'clock shadow, but the shame of it coupled with the weight drove me to hide.  The other kids started to notice my problem in Jr High.  I walked home from school and groups of 5 or 6 kids would follow 3 feet behind and call taunts out to me.  "Hey, hey! Do you shave everyday?"  "Do you kiss your mother with that face?"  "Are you gonna grow a full beard?"  I kept my cool and just bowed my head and walked home, but I was worried about someone stepping out of the group and I would have to deal with violence.  Then as I got closer to home I didn't want them to know where I lived, so I turned down a Cull-Du-Sac before my own and they got bored when I didn't respond.

I never told anyone in my family, not my Mother, not my Father or my Brothers about the abuse I went through everyday.  I was and am safe in my home and I didn't want their view of me to change.  I take my mothers barbs about being anti-social, in stride because I know she doesn't have a clue about the specifics  tortures I endure from other people.  I try and take whatever blame she lays on me because despite everything I know she loves me and sees the best in me.  I love that she wants other to love me as much as she loves me despite my rough edges.  I know that I am very lucky to have a mother who accepts me as I am and lets me be myself.  I know it is the reason I survive with as much metal health as I have.  I am broken.  I admit to that, but I try my best to be the best.

My weight climbed every time I stepped on the scale in the Doctor's office.  The specialist was so horrible to me I remember with clarity Mom calling me to come inside to get ready for an appointment and I was so determined not to go I hid under the car for an hour until I thought it would be too late.  She was angry with me, but it didn't match I had avoided the Dr who screamed at me to lose weight every time I went.  "I you don;t lose weight you are going to die of a heart attack, get diabetes and most likely get "The big C!"  I had to ask what that was on the way home and Mom said it was cancer.  He acted like I sat at home all Day eating candy bars.  I will explain my eating in a future post, but I can say that I ate like a normal kid my age.  He told me to write down every thing I ate until the next appointment.  I did what he asked and instead of showing me the tub of ice cream that I am sure he thought I ate every night I saw a normal diet.  Yes, I did eat sugar.  Yes, I did like treats, but I never got up in the middle of the night made a pie and ate the whole thing in one sitting, No, my skinny brother did that!

Did the Dr care that I did what he asked, no of course not!  I stepped on the scale gained more weight and he was off yelling at me again.  He threatened to send me to a nutritionist.  I said,"Fine!! Do it!"  He didn't.  He threaten to wire my jaw shut. "Fine! Do it!"  He didn't.  Over and over the same thing every appointment.  The same yelling, the same threatening.  No help.  During this time I was dealing with my peers coming after me and my own feelings of inadequacies.  My parents made me go to a shrink that was the biggest nerd I had seen in a while and I had no faith in him at all,but I tried to tell him the truth as much as I felt comfortable, but I had no belief that he could help me and that was it.

It felt like the little the Dr's did try to do for me was all wrong.  Because of the high levels of testosterone I also did not have a normal menstrual cycle,  I would not have any bleeding for 3 to 6months and I liked that part, but as a consequence I would then have to deal with a 3 month period.  It would be so bad I would have to draw a bath and sit in the tub for hours trying to get relief.  The Dr thought it was terrible that I wasn't regular, so he finally put me on birth control pills.  Another humiliation to add to the others at age 14.  The Dr was convinced I would gain weight on the pills and did not want to put me on them, but guess what?  I threw up every morning.  I tried to use it to my advantage to get out of going to school and I did stay home quite a few days, but my mother wasn't buying it.  I went off of them when I threw up into my clarinet case in the middle of band class.

An off- shoot of the main Kaiser building was finally built in Simi Valley and I stopped seeing the specialist.  Then in my twenties my mother started to show signs of Type Two diabetes, which comes from being overweight.  I show up as being insulin resistant, which was immediately blamed on my weight, but they have since found out that the cysts in my ovaries where a symptom of a greater problem not the cause of P-COS.  Also being insulin resistant is a symptom of P-COS and I really wish the problem had been address then.  To me I did not have diabetes, but the Dr treated me like I did.  I had a bad reaction to the pills and it made me very sick, so I did not take the pills. 

It felt to me like I wasn't being listened too.  I pride myself on knowing my body and it felt to me like I didn't have any imput.  The Dr's and nurses would talk to one another , ask me questions to clarify, but I was a puzzel to figure out, not a person with any common sense, which I do understand.  I realize that the medical profession is dealing with a majority of idoits and I give them a break because of that, but come on!  At some point they need to look past the the file and see how to deal with me, as a person. 

Then I turn a certain age and I was no longer under my parents health insurance and because of the pre-existing conditions,  I was told I could not get Health Insurance unless I worked as a drone in a company and that was something I could not make myself do.  I went without any kind of help for about 12 years.  I found out more about P-COS because my sister-in-law was diagnosed with it when she tried to have a 2nd baby.  She found Dr's who were willing to work with her and I found out more of the recent developments with the syndrome.

I tell you this because I want you to know the background I am coming from.  My problems are not straight forward.  I know it sounds bad, but I wished many times that it was cancer.  That disease can be quantified.  You may have a shorter life span, but when I was a child people were very kind and gentle to a child with cancer.  Their sickness is not they're fault and we try to be understanding towards them.  Not me, I looked like a glutinous weak-willed trolled who can not stop shoving food into her pie hole, so for that I reason I have felt judged and blamed for my sickness.   I am nothing like that, but I can't go up to a group of people and say, "Uh, I know I look bad, but there is something medically wrong with me, so be gentle."  I was constantly frustrated by the treatment I receive at the hands of humanity and for my sanity I had to let the cruelty roll off of me like a duck with water.

Stay tune for part II where I will explain my recent health troubles.

No Pity Party for Me

Now that I have given some background into myself here is the reason I decided to write down my experiences.  I am in the minority.  I am different looking and because of that I am open to attack.  Within any group of people.  There isn't a country called "Fatadonia" where I can go to blend in, although the South is pretty darn close.  I am an Outcast. 

The thing is...I'm fine.  My life is awful. Terrible!  I didn't want it to be like this.  I have nothing. I plan to go more in depth about the struggles and the coping in later writings.  I am shocked when people say I am ugly. Not for the rudeness, but because I do not think that statement is true.  My body is not a measure of who I am and to be so bluntly judged surprises me.

The childhood taunt that cut me to the bone out of all of them were the two boys standing around as I rushed to class.  One boy would shout as I walked past,  "Hey, My friend here likes you!" The other boy would be completely mortified by the idea of liking me.  His face would go red with a blush and he would yammer his denials back "No! I don't like you!" and then he would proceed to beat up his suppose friend.  I couldn't stand the thought of a person being ashamed to like me.  That taut was said to me everyday and everyday the tears would prick my eyes.

What really made me angry was that I knew they were wrong.  I believed I was witty and intelligent.  That I could get lost in the moment and I had real loyalty.  My body didn't hold me back.  I hated sports.  I found it boring, but I was involved in dance for quite a while and was able to do the splits and touch my toes.  I only felt fat when other people pointed it out.  I felt fat when I couldn't find any decent clothing that fit and I felt fat when I looked at a pair of jeans.  The jeans that fit me were huge and the waistband became a physical reminder of how much fabric it took to get around me.  So I learned to avoid those triggers.
No more shopping.  I still hate it today, but that is because I am too sick.  No more jeans.  Mostly pants with elastic.
No more people.

That one was a lot harder,  People don't like it when you avoid people.  My Mother mainly, but I learned to protect myself.  My main technique is to be invisible.  I complained for a while that I felt like the incredible invisible woman when I entered a room, but over time I have realized that my mannerism cause that to happen.  I can't break them even when I try they have become so ingrained in me.  When I enter a classroom I have a spilt second to judge who is hostile towards me, who is indifferent and who would be open to my presence.  It is pretty clear with children, after a few "you can't sit here!"  yelled at you.  The body language and facial expressions become a clue into their behavior.  Fortunately for me there is always another outcast being shunned and I was usually able to find them in the room.  This talent of reading people was and is a lifesaver.  It only grew strong as I got older and with my introduction into more spiritual matters I was able to tap into that talent to help me on my mission and beyond.

The other thing I notice works in my favor is remaining anonymous.  I love doing certain things, hate doing others.  I love directing plays, planning parties and making art.  If I have someone else be the figure head, and I do the work behind the scenes.  I have huge amounts of success, but if people know it is me in charge the support fizzles.  That is the great thing about my mother.  She says yes, everyone goes to her first, but I'm the one who makes the decisions.  The accolades go to somebody else and that used to make me mad, but the few people who saw through my rouse, who knew it was really my talents they were praising became my biggest advocates.

 The best example I can think of it the Theatre Costuming.  I said no when I was asked to help with a Church Production.  The leaders put an impossible budget on it and I wanted it to be good, not a bunch of broomstick skirts.  Oh, that's another thing with the Peck's.  You ask us to do something and we will do the very best possible no matter the amount of money or the amount of time. I am not afraid to say no, so they went to my Mother and she said yes.  I was very upset.  I had been in Theatre production and I knew the amount of professionalism required to have a successful show.  I felt like they were twisting arms instead of getting the support needed, but my mother needed my help. She put forth the money.  I helped her get the fabric.  Then let her take it from there.  She is a great sewer and didn't have problems making the costumes, but costuming is an art form that has many layers involved, including color stories.  I couldn't bear her work to look bad, so I became my pushy self and I had to fix it the best I could.  The next thing I knew I was working every weekend organizing the costumes and taking  care of the actors, just what I had tried to avoid, but I have to admit that because Mom said yes a local theater production saw what we could do and hired us on the spot for their next production.  I ended up working as a costumer  for 4 years.

I have learned to hate people in groups.  We have stereotypes for a reason.  Stereotypes help us to decided if we want that person's influence in our lives but I believe that we become stunted when we keep the individual in that preconceived first pigeon hole.  I became aware that my first impression became my only impression.  I don't like parties that are just a bunch of people standing around.  I find that if I am apart of a group that is together for a purpose I have time to show myself in a favorable light.  I think of groups of people as a mob and I wait with baited breath for someone to point at me and yell "Monster! Monster! Get your pitchforks and torches!"  I know that is an exaggeration, but that is the anxiety I feel in public.  I can't tell you how many times I was complimented with, "Wow, You are a great person!  I always thought you were a Bitch."  I never knew how to respond, finally I started saying "Yeah, I am a great person.  Glad you figured it out!"

I am completely mind boggled at the beautiful talented woman who are told that they are beautiful and do not believe it!  In the theatre their were tiny girls with everything going for them paralyzed by thoughts of inadequacies.  My jaw would drop at the negative image these girls would have of themselves.  I'm measuring a size 2 dress and they are complaining about how fat they are.  My heart aches for they're fear and desperate wish for someone else to make them feel better.  The horrible belief that permeated every sentence was that they were nothing.  That the love given to them was conditional and would be taken away if they did not remain ever vigilant.  Compliments only were given because of social norms and that others must be lying to them or "just saying that".  Are YOU CRAZY!!!

Human nature is not to compliment.  I knew that every nice thing said to me was meant because I knew how hard it was for that person to get outside of themselves to actually notice.  Now maybe it is different for someone who has been compliment since birth, but I don't think so.  There is a big difference between a pick up line and a sincere expression.  The problem is how we ourselves internalize the positive or the negative.

My view changed dramatically when I entered the Missionary Training Center(MTC).  I believe when I was told the Missionary tag on your chest meant that you were a representative of Jesus Christ.  I started to falter on my mission when the other missionaries treated me the same as my childhood.  They were still seeing me as my stereotype or my body, not as the individual person that wanted so desperately to be recognized.  I believed that must be how God saw me also.  I was just a little red-headed dot in the sea of humanity, doomed to float away in an ocean of apathy, my talents buried, my essence drowned.  It was out there begging on my knees in desperation to be heard by anybody,that I was given a life changing gift.  Acknowledgement.  I felt God not only confirm to me his love, but much more important to me was the fact that I was important to Him.  That me, myself and I mattered inside of his world.  All the condemnation fell away like a discarded weight across my shoulders and very slowly I became open to change and recognizing where the fault is mine.

I have tried to face my bad with my good.  I try to accept responsibility for my faults and to be a realist with human behaviors.  I have forgiven many of the hurts because they have lead me to the knowledge and the certainties that I hold in my heart.  I am the product of my environment, but I believe that each one of us holds the potential to not only be great in the eyes of others, but to go beyond that and become truly happy.

A brief Timeline

I very much wanted to do a Timeline in Pictures.  As they say "A picture says a thousand words."  I believe it is pretty clear when things started to go terribly wrong, unfortunately with my moving multiple times and the crush of boxes in this house it is impossible to find specific items.  I had pulled out a stack of photos for a talk I gave to the Young Women in my church, but it has been lost to the pile of boxes that I do not have the strength to muscle through.  I cobbled together what I could and I hope it gets my point across.

I have a very vivid memory.  I wish I could say it was a Photographic or an Eidetic memory.  I always thought that was very cool and would make school a lot easier, but I have to admit that the information I remember needs to be interesting to me.  I can't deal with straight facts.  I learned this in the everyday trial known as school.  I like learning.  The academic part of school was fine and fun for me.  I figured out that for me taking notes were useless.  I would write down the sentence as I heard it and be so intent on doing it that I would miss chunks of information that the teacher would give while I was writing.  Then the notes never made sense to me later.  If I listen intently (that is the key, if I let my mind wander it wouldn't work later.) when the test came around I could close my eyes and replay the lecture in my head until I found the right answer.  Or open the textbook in my mind look through the chapter headings find the right paragraph with the info tucked away in a certain sentence and read it for the answer.  Sounds close to an eidetic memory, but it took effort and I could only do it for a short time after the lecture.  The info would slowly dribble out and I could not recall it much later.

Oh, and dates.  I do not do well with dates.  I have pillars of time in my life.  Then I use the clues in the memory to guide me to a year.  I can pinpoint an event to almost the exact month using this method.  I do the same thing with history.  I know the civil war started 1860, Victorian age 1890's, Edwardian 1910's and so on.  I took a history of fashion class in college.  I am able to match the style of dress or style of decorations to the time period.  Each time I learn a new fact I try to slip it near a time pillar ie I just learned that the Spanish- American war happened during the US depression and was a precursor to World War II.  I will now always remember when that war took place because I have it next to two steady facts in my mind.

Now for my timeline.  I plan to take my stories from within these events.

 I was born in September of 1975.  The middle and only daughter.

My mother is very creative and made a lot of clothing for me.

1978 my balloon says "I am 3 Today"

'77-'84 This is the apartment I remember in Burbank, Ca.  Many pictures are taken in the front yard or the side walkway.  My parents were managers and had the front apartment.  Everything was perfectly normal for me.

 I consider 3 years my last flirtation with normalcy.

1980  This is when I entered school and I wish I had my school pictures so that you could see the difference between me and the rest of the class, but it thankfully did not matter to the other children.  I was one of the queen bees of the school.  The teachers trusted me and I was given special privileges like getting the daily milk for kindergarten snack.

1982  This is the age about 7 or 8 that things went kiddie wonky for me.  I didn't notice much because my mother made my clothes still, so I did not feel the difference in my size yet.

1982  This is how I think of myself.  My mother took a photography class.  She set up photo shoots and me in the green dress is frozen in time.

1982   When I look in the mirror I see her.  Not the chubby ballerina who couldn't find a tutu big enough to fit.

1982    That is a massive set of thighs, but things really went wrong when I moved to Simi Valley, Ca.  I was a true freak by then and I made sure there were very few photos of me.  This one was caught when I accepted the President's Award in 6th grade.  That makes me 11 years old.

1986  I look older than the teacher and by this time I was forced to wear whatever could be found.  Patterns were too small, so it became very hard for my mother to make anything for me.

1988 I had to be unaware of a photo.  Are you starting to understand the pure prejudice and cruelty that came my way. People can be so cruel, but children have a certain viciousness. What I see in the mirror never matches up to the pictures.

1993 This is my high school graduation photo.  I am only 17 years old.

1994 It never got any better, no matter the diet plans.  No matter what I did.  Here I am helping my mother with a doll presentation for my grandmothers doll club in Utah.

Nov of 1997  This is the beginning of my mission for 18 months in Montana and Wyoming.  The higher ups in the church took over a year to decide if I could go.

July of 1998  This is the middle of my mission after months of tracking a small town in Worland, Wy.  We are burnt to a crisp.  I ruined my feet walking everywhere and I still didn't lose any weight.

March of 1999 This is toward the end of my mission. I began to discover the eating that worked for me.

2000-2001  This was me in my last months of Fashion design college.  I made the blouse and the corset. The corset was meant to be for a size 8 model, but I knew that would be a waste, so I blew it up to fit me.  I was proud enough to take a professional picture for my portfolio. 

2003-2007  I began costuming for the local community theater.  I thought I would go far in that profession.  I believed I had a talent for it.  Here I am performing as "The Wardrobe" in Beauty & the Beast.  One of the hardest shows to costume.  And I wasn't suppose to do it, but I made plans on how to fix the mess from the very beginning and was able to step in to save the production in the final hours. 

2007- 2008  I became a Behavior Therapist.  I met the man who refereed me for the job doing "The Sound of Music".  I have a nephew diagnosed with Aspergers syndrome and if you can deal with a relative you are pretty much a shoe-in.  Loved the job, but I couldn't costume anymore.

July of 2009 I finally had health insurance.  I finally had money.  I was sick and tired of the large belly of loose skin I was carrying around.  I had managed to lose 80 pounds, not that anyone noticed, but that was it.  I platitude.  The doctors and I thought that the surgery would give me a jump start to losing again.  He took 20 pounds of stomach off of me, meanwhile California had a major financial crisis, teachers and aids were being laid off and I was one of them.  I lost my job, my money, my health insurance and my doctor retired all in the same months.  I was recovering fine until October.  I hung on, but the surgeon told me in March that I needed to go to the emergency room. 

March of 2010  My kidney's were about to fail.  I was told I was going to die in a year or less and there is nothing that can be done.

August 2010 Moved to Virginia to live with my parents and start the fight for disability.  I also went blind and a very kind Doctor saved my sight.

July 2012 Finally after 2 years, going to have a hearing before a judge, struggling to find a lawyer. I received notice that I have been approved for disability.  I have failing kidney's, congestive heart failure, blindness, diabetes with all the symptoms that come with that and I am going to be 37 years old.  I keep thinking I am not going to be able to endure the normal 75 year lifespan.