Some triumphs are small. Others are huge. Others still are of epic proportions.
As I wrote in my inaugural blog post, I am an emotional eater. It stems from childhood. From the age of two, my father’s mother, Maria, would pick me up early from the baby sitters for our daily afternoon McDonalds happy meal.
“This is our secret,” she told me. Obviously knowing nothing about healthy eating, I was just excited to spend time with my grandmother. My parents, knowing nothing, would then pick me up from her house and make me eat an entire dinner back at home. I was never hungry, and it would take me forever to finish what they put in front of me. They thought I was being picky. To this day, chicken mcnuggets are my comfort food.
Just before kindergarten, Richard and Maria moved to northern Ohio, about eight hours away from our home just outside of DC. Remarkably, I would begin to thin out during the year, only to come home ten pounds heavier after my annual two-week visit over the summer. My mother was at her wits end, trying to figure out the problem.
About fourth grade, the other kids at school began to notice I was heavy. They were mean, and eating made me feel better. As my weight increased, as did their jokes. So I ate more. The pounds just piled on.
At thirteen, my world came crashing down around me, for reasons I won’t go into on the internet. I needed my grandparents, for reasons of their own, they chose not to be there. I never saw them again. Food was my solace. Maria died in 2003, and Richard passed about ten months later.
I was not an innocent bystander by any means. By the time I had reached high school, I had sat through enough health classes to choke a horse. I knew I was eating unhealthily. But I didn’t stop.
College didn’t help. Late night study sessions meant late night runs to the 24 hour mess hall. Thursday and Friday nights mean frat parties. Frat parties meant cheap beer and lots of it. And I went to all the parties. Hey, I was popular.
One month ago, I decided to get healthy. I started working with Braids, my personal trainer, to make sure that I was making each and every work out count. I knew, deep down, and this is my final hurdle to get past my grandparents’ betrayal. I’ve worked hard to get myself on track emotionally. Once I rid myself of my mid-afternoon happy meals from all those years ago, I will finally be able to say that I’m past it all.
A few months ago, I decided to write to Maria’s sister. I haven’t spoken to her in nearly fifteen years. I was interested in learning stories about Maria’s childhood, so I would be able to balance the negative memories I have with something better. I figured, why not write her? The absolute worst that would happen is that she tell me to bugger off, and honestly, been there, done that.
She did not tell me to bugger off. In fact, she was very receptive to providing me with stories about Maria, and for that, I am thankful. Her emails, however, kept alluding to the family rift, and I began to get the feeling that (duh) she only had half the story. So I took the bull by the horns and told her what really happened.
Here’s where my triumph enters, stage right.
A few hours after I sent the email, I received a very emotional and very charged near stream-of-consciousness reply with something that knocked me for a loop. While my family had thought that Richard and Maria had a problem with my father, in reality they blamed ME for everything.
I know, it’s difficult to explain without going into the whole story. But long story short, when I was fourteen, I wrote a letter to Maria confessing how hurt I was, and that I only wanted out family to be whole again. Turns out, Maria told her sister that I had written that I hated her, and that she deserved to have her stroke some time before. My great aunt told me Maria’s health began declining after I sent her that letter.
I did write a letter, but I never said such a heinous thing. What kind of person erroneously blames a fourteen year old girl , who just wanted her family back, for a stroke victim’s decline? Who, by the way, had diabetes prior to her stroke and failed to take care of herself properly? I replied with the correct version of events. I haven’t received anything back, if I get anything at all.
The old Me would have taken this opportunity to flop on the couch in my ratty old sweats and dive head first into a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. (I loved Ben and Jerrys. It fit perfectly in my hand…**sighs*) But I didn’t. I have a ton of food in the fridge behind me, but I didn’t open it. I didn’t hit the drive through. I didn’t polish off a bag of Oreos.
Instead, I visited my mom’s parents. I spent a good three hours just talking with them, and I left feeling much better. And this morning? I ate a healthy breakfast…followed by a healthy lunch…and a healthy snack…and the gym.
I responded to a stressful, emotional, and potentially diet-ruining situation in a healthful manner.
Until the scale says 150, this will be my greatest triumph.
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