The trees whipped by with an alarming alacrity. The growing morning embers hung in the shadows waiting for their chance of prominence. Dawn was approaching and the wind smelled of fall; leaves of yellow, red, and green lay strewn across the ground carrying with them a trace of dew and a hint of mischievousness. Come hither, they called. Step on us and feel the slight sliding underfoot. This was neither a merry frolic in an enchanted meadow, nor a chance to run about with some wood-lawn creatures. This was Highland Park, in Cypress hills Brooklyn, in September of 2006. The foot pounding against asphalt continued and the beaded sweat running down my forehead was already lacing the collar of my shirt. The pace was slow, but the determination was high. I had finally started to “rog”, my beloved word for my attempt at running but a more slowly paced jog. If you’re just starting out on your journeys and the idea of running is scary and petrifying, rog my friends! ROG!
It had been a seven months since I started journaling, and moving, and starting to finally come to grips with the weight demons that clung fettered to me. I was dare I say, happy. I had yet to even cross the threshold of the gym and I was sitting on 305 lbs. 75 pounds down! There had been a lapse in the program, mainly because I was firmly convinced that to lose anymore would mean to lose everything that I loved. I had always thought of this process as solitary, as coming to terms with myself to stop those self-destructive behaviors. I never thought of the familial consequences. There was indeed a war in my family. A battle of the bulge, and I was teetering on the brink of not being the “big one.” I’m not sure how everyone’s family operates but in mine, there is no middle ground. We are individuals on the extreme, in all facets of life. It doesn’t mean there is any less love, but knowing that simple unspoken truth was horrifying. I always felt that you’re either big or you’re not, and to not be categorized under those subtexts means to not belong. You are an interloper in a supposed safe place. Simply grappling to try and find your place. Don’t get me wrong, there were encouraging words but there were accompanied whispers and glances of, “Did you see how small she is getting?”, “Don’t worry it’s just a phase.” Just a phase! OK! This is the way that my life had to become. How much longer before those scales started to reflect 4’s and 5’s? How much longer could I let my emotional eating best me, and those nights of feeling emotionally stifled finally consume me? I wish I could have given everyone, family included, a pass into my head; to give the entire world a glimpse into the true reasons why I started losing. To show everyone this just wasn’t a phase, but an all out assault of my body. I didn’t want to be the outcast, but I knew this was the proverbial tipping point. I love my family, but please understand that I had to love me more. Maybe if the true story surfaced, if everyone could have understood the two year inner turmoil, it would have made that transition easier. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost friends and confidants, and IT wouldn’t have pushed so hard when I did start to morph.
The second loop of the park passed me by and I was still rogging. I projected the true beginning of this journey; hoping that everyone on that loop with me could see the play out of events, embracing the thought that my family and loved ones could hear me. The sun rose.
While the doctor’s words were jarring, off course, the beginning began in place that resembled nothing of my Highland Park, and nothing of my Brooklyn. It began on a plane, in 2004. It was South African air to be exact, and there was no family, no friends. It was just me, a middle seat, no seatbelt extension, and eighteen hours of flight time minus my two hour Senegal lay over. To my larger friends the mere utterance of the previous statement is enough to run the blood cold. To my smaller friends, let me take the time to map out the extreme nightmare of this scenario. Before that flight, I had not been on a plane in several years and if I did have the opportunity to fly, I was doing so on the aisle seat with enough room to lean over and artfully dodge the service cart, bathroom goers and flight attendants. The plane was packed, and it seemed my fate was to reenact the life of a sardine. This was no rush hour traffic on the A train at 6am, nor the graceful squish of a packed bus. This was hell! I never thought I was so big that I could not fit into a seat. My internal view of myself never matched my external. In my mind, I was maybe 200 lbs and lithe and gazelle-like. But what the outward was telling me was that I had reached my capacity. Damn you body for finally shaking up my psyche at the worst possible moment.
I walked down the aisle, looked at my flight ticket and realized where I was sitting. I hoped for someone, anyone to be sick and off course the sick fates did not have it in mind that day to grant me a reprieve. I continued to walk down the center aisle glancing up at the letters; mine was B in row 26. Seats A and C were already occupied and there was a trove of people behind me. Pushing against my back and urging me to not avoid the unavoidable. I flung my carryon bag into the holster above my row and began the gracious comments to justify my squeezing into a seat were I was clearly not welcome. The man in seat C was possibly 50 lbs smaller than my 360 frame at the time. The woman in Seat A was giving our row a possible 700 lbs between three of us. Great. They had the same look in their eyes and the pleading for me to find someplace, any place else to squeeze myself. I glanced sideways to Seats D and E on my left. Their patrons were both small and smiling and happy, and they weren’t moving. But they looked over at us, and just frowned. I stood above the seat, only to realize that my broadness compared with Seat C’s broadness was going to be hard. I squeezed my arms inward and slid down into that sit as if I had just come off a playground slide: quickly and with a slight shame for the speed. However, there was no childhood joy here. No expectant smiles that come from the knowledge of a loved one waiting at the bottom to catch me. I reached for the seatbelt and it didn’t close. Not even with the belt pulled taut and to the max. I looked for the flight attendant to get an extension, only to be told by the man next to me that they didn’t have any, he had tried. He was told if the seat could not close then he would have to get off the flight. He had just squeezed into his. This was clearly not an option for me. I did the only thing I could do. I pulled the seatbelt closer to me, made it look as if it were closed and flung my hands into my lap to cover the buckle/closer distance. Seat C and I had some momentary solidarity over our seat belt dilemmas, but I knew we were doomed to be enemies once the flight took off. Who would get the arm rest? What is Seat A needed to go to the bathroom? How were we going to be comfortable?! The flight attendant walked by, looked at both our seatbelts, nodded and progressed down the aisle. I was safe, if only for now…
I never told anyone but I cried: 30,000 feet in the air, ten hours into the flight when lights in the cabin were out. A and C were asleep and I couldn’t help it. I was overwhelmed, ashamed, embarrassed, and more importantly angry at myself for letting it get this far. I made the action plan that I have set forth for the past three years then. I would never get on a plane and not have it close. I would never have to apologize to anyone again for my body width. I would not be ashamed of my person ever again! I pulled out my notepad that I had been using for South African thoughts and reflections, and I wrote a note to myself. I scribbled that when I returned, I would at least take a realistic look at what I could do when I was in college. I thought about how I could mentally prepare myself for this process, and even if I gained along the way [which I did, another 20 before college was out] I would make major changes at graduation. I would not tell anyone about it, I would just be about it.
By the time the flight finally landed, I was prepared. The tears had long dried, yet my psyche still remained bruised. I had other things to worry about it. I had an action plan, a secret one, but an action plan nonetheless. I didn’t know if it was going to work, but for the moment I was content with it. That plan would later be reinforced when traveling across the country with a friend; all of our belongings were stolen. To put it simply there is no plus size in South Africa. I was told to shop at Big Mama’s in order to replace simple garments. Never again! Never will I let someone’s decisions affect me so radically that I cannot even maintain my lifestyle without much difficulty. I ended up spending almost five hundred dollars on five pieces of clothing: two shirts, two pants, a sweat shirt. I still had more than a month to go in my South African journey, and I wore those clothes bare. “Larger” clothes are a 100 a piece in South Africa, but the quality was much cheaper. The smaller clothes were tailored and beautiful, and colorful. My larger pieces that I found at Woolworth were drab, and dark and dull. I missed my colors.
The plan was slightly revised to include fitness after that, but I never forgot. It’s a longer story for another time, but the point is that it made my scribbled resolution more clear. I had to do something. I spent two years before this journey even started laying out my foundation. I would not be that strong house crumbling from the weaker foundations; no rotting beams here. It was only 2004, which from now was almost five years ago. I still have that note. I ask everyone to write themselves a secret resolution. Hold it close and dear to your heart, for only you know what you are capable of in the beginning. For me not to be forthcoming would be wrong. But in the very beginning, I couldn’t pull myself to tell this story. It still pains me, and off course my friends, we needed to build some rapport. But the rapport has now been built, and you needed to know. I am not perfect nor am I the prime example of weight loss and management. But I am honest. And I do care. And honestly, the journey is hard all around. But it’s worth it, regardless of how long it takes to really kick it into gear. I learned to love myself for the first time in forever, and I am appreciative to those quiet moments of reflections that only come, for me, on the edge of Dawn.
This is the story that I wish my family could have heard; the story that I was silently projecting that day three years ago. I did not have the courage to tell it then, but maybe to read it now would mean to understand, and to forgive my change. I stepped away from the park, and looked back at the loop. I had rogged it four times: one mile for Highland. I walked home with the sun on my face and dreamed of a day when the scales would tell be 2 something. It was only five more pounds! I could say one thing after that rog: I was learning to let go. And it felt wonderful.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
I watched...
I watched the pounds slide away. Six months, three days, and four hours of determination: 55 lbs and now 315. I stole surreptitious glances at myself when I thought no one was looking to confirm that this was indeed me. I watched my 24’s go to 20/22’s. My “new skirt” didn’t fit anymore. My piece that made me feel so ravishing hung in the closest silently hoping for my return. We had had some great times for the two months that it fit but it now hung alone and lonely. I grew sad for the person I used to be and even sadder still for my lost layers that had provided umpteen moments of warmth. It was only 55 lbs but I was getting cold, both literally and figuratively, and I felt that I did not know who I was anymore. I missed me and me missed me back. But IT had stopped telling me so. IT had grown quite tight-lipped the further I pushed IT away. We had been the dynamic duo, myself and IT; soaring new heights with accompanying poundage. And IT had abandoned me, if only temporarily, to see if I was really going to stick with this whole weight loss trip that I was on. I missed those fuller round cherub-like cheeks that hid my elongated face and my often hidden but ever present chin dimple. My new face wasn’t AS full yet still round, but could it be possible that with this change, I wasn’t feeling full? My calorie consumption had gone from 3100 a day to 1800 so in that sense, yes, I wasn’t full. But my soul felt empty, what was this about? But I continued to watch and plead for some sort of resolution.
Wasn’t this journey for the greater good of Darnisa? Wasn’t this the right move to make to ensure that I would be here for years to come, without the worry of all weight-related illness? I didn’t know but I watched for the turning point. I searched for the moment when my psyche and my body would sync, much like all the airplane seatbelts that I couldn’t close without extensions finally clicking home, and longed for the time when losing weight would truly begin to make me happy. For yes it was indeed what I wanted, but no one told me that I would feel more lost in these times than any other. At 21, I made the penultimate decision, but everyone wasn’t onboard with me. I became the queen of workout justification for fear of being pulled into tempting food situations. My home became the safe place with no treats or snacks to ameliorate my 3am cravings for bowls of captain crunch followed by toast with cream cheese and jelly. Everyone couldn’t understand my new found zeal that they were watching. It was Darnisa but not DARNISA. The loveable, affable, pleasant go to person. I was never one to put myself above others, often taking the Tale of Two Cities Charles Darney-like altruism to the limit. You need something, I got you. You want something; don’t worry Darnisa’s going to make it happen. But I watched as that Darnisa, at that time, had to morph into a more selfish person. I had to become a person who was putting her needs above others and her commitment to being healthier in the forefront for the first time in recent memory. And for that I watched my relationships with some of my confidants splinter. And it hurt.
I watched as friends drifted away for my differing ways; old eating companions choosing to find new friends to commensurate with others over everything scrumptious leaving me to veggies, grilled chicken and perfect sized portions of everything. Gone were the nights of reckless ordering and eating to fill whatever pain the day had brought. I watched as I was left to my world of new playlists, fitness magazines and food journaling. Yet, I watched as new people grew closer to me. I was not left alone but more introspective and reflective, more weight-wise in a way. This was the deep world of weight loss that is rarely advertised. Surgery, or weight loss pills or the gym do not mask the moments of grappling of what losing what can truly do to you mentally. For anyone that embarks on this journey be forewarned. For every ten pounds, and redefinition of shape through your own workout methods, comes more moments of watching and attempting to internalize that change. I was dealing with it but it scared life from me. I wondered what could happen when more months passed, more pounds left, and more unexplored sizes came into the picture and more close were left abandoned and hanging in my closet.
I glanced at my journal and hugged it to me for answers, wishing I could shake it and have it provide answers ala a Magic 8 ball: How long before I give up? Shake: Try Again. How long before I begin to feel as beautiful as I am? Shake: Unknown. HOW LONG BEFORE THIS DRIVES ME MAD? Shake: The answer lies with you…. Thanks Food Journal. I guess in retrospect I should have been shaking my head and looking for these answers, for they truly did lie within me, but I wasn’t equipped with the proper tools to answer such questions yet. And for that, I looked elsewhere for answers and watched as those answers never materialize.
I hugged the food journal tighter and snuck a glance at myself in the mirror, the shadows of the room contouring new curves and indents. My body width was still too long to give myself the true body hug that I really wanted. Yet, I hugged something close that was becoming a new friend and a new confidant for my own demons. And it was cold too. It wasn’t radiating with body heat but it glowed with an understanding of times yet to come. I was 315 and still had over 100 lbs to go. I WAS indeed Beautiful and strong yet simply less round. I wasn’t gone though at the time I felt it. Not less ME just less of me. I did the only thing I could do. I kept journaling; I kept moving and kept walking. I chose to ignore everything that wasn’t essential for my betterment and hoped to one day turn inward and answer the questions my journal could not. I hoped for mental solace and to one day watch myself and simply reflect without bewilderment and feelings of loss.
Wasn’t this journey for the greater good of Darnisa? Wasn’t this the right move to make to ensure that I would be here for years to come, without the worry of all weight-related illness? I didn’t know but I watched for the turning point. I searched for the moment when my psyche and my body would sync, much like all the airplane seatbelts that I couldn’t close without extensions finally clicking home, and longed for the time when losing weight would truly begin to make me happy. For yes it was indeed what I wanted, but no one told me that I would feel more lost in these times than any other. At 21, I made the penultimate decision, but everyone wasn’t onboard with me. I became the queen of workout justification for fear of being pulled into tempting food situations. My home became the safe place with no treats or snacks to ameliorate my 3am cravings for bowls of captain crunch followed by toast with cream cheese and jelly. Everyone couldn’t understand my new found zeal that they were watching. It was Darnisa but not DARNISA. The loveable, affable, pleasant go to person. I was never one to put myself above others, often taking the Tale of Two Cities Charles Darney-like altruism to the limit. You need something, I got you. You want something; don’t worry Darnisa’s going to make it happen. But I watched as that Darnisa, at that time, had to morph into a more selfish person. I had to become a person who was putting her needs above others and her commitment to being healthier in the forefront for the first time in recent memory. And for that I watched my relationships with some of my confidants splinter. And it hurt.
I watched as friends drifted away for my differing ways; old eating companions choosing to find new friends to commensurate with others over everything scrumptious leaving me to veggies, grilled chicken and perfect sized portions of everything. Gone were the nights of reckless ordering and eating to fill whatever pain the day had brought. I watched as I was left to my world of new playlists, fitness magazines and food journaling. Yet, I watched as new people grew closer to me. I was not left alone but more introspective and reflective, more weight-wise in a way. This was the deep world of weight loss that is rarely advertised. Surgery, or weight loss pills or the gym do not mask the moments of grappling of what losing what can truly do to you mentally. For anyone that embarks on this journey be forewarned. For every ten pounds, and redefinition of shape through your own workout methods, comes more moments of watching and attempting to internalize that change. I was dealing with it but it scared life from me. I wondered what could happen when more months passed, more pounds left, and more unexplored sizes came into the picture and more close were left abandoned and hanging in my closet.
I glanced at my journal and hugged it to me for answers, wishing I could shake it and have it provide answers ala a Magic 8 ball: How long before I give up? Shake: Try Again. How long before I begin to feel as beautiful as I am? Shake: Unknown. HOW LONG BEFORE THIS DRIVES ME MAD? Shake: The answer lies with you…. Thanks Food Journal. I guess in retrospect I should have been shaking my head and looking for these answers, for they truly did lie within me, but I wasn’t equipped with the proper tools to answer such questions yet. And for that, I looked elsewhere for answers and watched as those answers never materialize.
I hugged the food journal tighter and snuck a glance at myself in the mirror, the shadows of the room contouring new curves and indents. My body width was still too long to give myself the true body hug that I really wanted. Yet, I hugged something close that was becoming a new friend and a new confidant for my own demons. And it was cold too. It wasn’t radiating with body heat but it glowed with an understanding of times yet to come. I was 315 and still had over 100 lbs to go. I WAS indeed Beautiful and strong yet simply less round. I wasn’t gone though at the time I felt it. Not less ME just less of me. I did the only thing I could do. I kept journaling; I kept moving and kept walking. I chose to ignore everything that wasn’t essential for my betterment and hoped to one day turn inward and answer the questions my journal could not. I hoped for mental solace and to one day watch myself and simply reflect without bewilderment and feelings of loss.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Music Makes Me Lose Control...
Music saved my life. The bass pounding beats removed all the noise inside my head. It made me a super hero… in a word a super ME. And for that I fell in love; wonderfully hopelessly in love. It wooed me and courted me and took a gentle approach, knowing that I was still fragile and weary of rejection. It enamored me by rhythm and words, by its focus and ultimately by its drive. It incorporated all the things that I was looking for in a lover and brought them into the forefront as a means to be captured. It was reliable, ever-present, flexible and dare I say attractive? Who could not love the way a voice expressed everything you felt you could not at the moment, especially when attempting to move? I was starting to feel like I was in a polygamous relationship. On one hand I had my sneakers (who by this point had established themselves as the head honchos in my life) and now music. Apparently they reached some sort of agreement when I wasn’t paying attention, and I can honestly say that I was just happy that they were in sync to allow me to get to moving.
Because that’s what I was doing my friends. I was moving in a new way, and as you embark on whatever life- style change suits you, JUST MOVE. You don’t need money to walk, nor do you need money to run around the block, or to even make a playlist that makes you smile in times when no one realistically should. Let the tempos of your youth encapsulate you and lose yourself for fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty-five, or for an hour a day. Don’t keep telling yourself I’ll wait until I get a better paying job to make it happen. This was at the point where I had, yes, finally found a job. I was doing retail might I add at Lane Bryant [deep discounts while you can get them anyone?] but it still wouldn’t cover a gym membership. I had to be realistic. That money was strictly for sustenance and student loans. But I made the best of what I could of my now 400 dollars a month part-time income. I worked the sales floor like a woman on a mission and moved around and listened to the music in the store and dreamed of a thinner day.
I dreamed of a day when I wouldn’t have to sneak size 24’s [new size!] in the corner to add them to my size smaller clothing pile. I envisioned a day when I would not be represented by the clothing size that I was and hoard beautiful clothing because I had put a month’s hunt in to get the perfect look and to find the one thing that made me look my age. Music helped me with that. For all the things that I could say about my time at Lane Bryant, I can say that their music was official. If you’re ever in a Lane Bryant stock-room, look for the summer 06’ play-mix. Outstanding! It was the downtown Brooklyn soundtrack of fun and happiness. It was the rallying call for women to sort clothing by size, and floor set with the best of them. Maybe the music was so good as to mask the hurt expressions on their customer’s faces when the biggest size in the store was still too tight. "Keep Smiling, Keep Shining.” But it didn’t do that for me. Its frequency was right with my tempo.
My tempo, however, was always varied but my Brooklyn couldn’t be hidden. Those original playlists that I created and that were played in LB were a poem of my life, homage to my rejuvenation:
Woo Hah! It Tricky but Work It, Amante
Pump It with the Flava in Ya Ears
Loose Control at the Crossroads
Ready or Not, Lucifer I’m gonna chase you out of here
I had to merge all the music from the past and the present to begin to feel that I was finally coming full circle. From 7 to 22, I had forgotten how music could make me move. So to Biggie, Busta Rhythmes, Missy, Black Eyed Peas, Craig Mac, Run DMC, Bone thugs N Harmony, Fugees and Jay- Z thanks for helping me work on the demons while I tried to build up my fitness. I knew then as I know now that for the majority of the time, it would always be rap, no soothing lullabies of R&B, no melodic sounds of alternative rock. I had done enough soothing and I was putting myself into the ninth level of Dante’s hellacious Inferno. I wanted my lungs to burn for my past indiscretions, and wanted my muscles to scream in happiness for years of neglect. I was paying attention to my person, and I had music to thank for that.
I was still only three months in, but I had fourteen playlists. There was one for every day of the week, and seven more to just change up the mood. Their titles are still firmly planted on my computer to be summoned at will at any time. I bought a shuffle out of my meager paycheck [after my diligent Gen 3 I-pod retired after 4 yrs of service], and I was making it work for me. I still have it and use it for the gym; though the color has now changed. I discovered a part of myself through that music, and while I always loved Rap/Hip Hop I would have never thought that it would become the background to my weight-loss. I could relate to stories of struggle and pain, and while they all did not always coincide with mine, the hurt was evident on all levels. I understood the brashness of those voices and the melodic entrapment of commitment to be in a better place. The music waltzed and wooed me down fourteen sizes. It changed its approach over the past 2.5yrs and threw some eclectic elements that represented all my musical tastes. The Killers snuck in with U2 in toe. I was happy to see them. They didn’t normally get attention during my workouts. But they understood. I needed Rap in the beginning to get me going. Music knew that.
I can always appreciate anything or anyone that understands that I need complete harmony in my life. My playlists couldn’t stay one genre, because I’m not one genre. Thanks Music. And Music, in case you didn’t know it because I know I don’t say it that much, I love you too.
Sidenote: That first playlist will be posted, if you’re looking for something to get you started.
Because that’s what I was doing my friends. I was moving in a new way, and as you embark on whatever life- style change suits you, JUST MOVE. You don’t need money to walk, nor do you need money to run around the block, or to even make a playlist that makes you smile in times when no one realistically should. Let the tempos of your youth encapsulate you and lose yourself for fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty-five, or for an hour a day. Don’t keep telling yourself I’ll wait until I get a better paying job to make it happen. This was at the point where I had, yes, finally found a job. I was doing retail might I add at Lane Bryant [deep discounts while you can get them anyone?] but it still wouldn’t cover a gym membership. I had to be realistic. That money was strictly for sustenance and student loans. But I made the best of what I could of my now 400 dollars a month part-time income. I worked the sales floor like a woman on a mission and moved around and listened to the music in the store and dreamed of a thinner day.
I dreamed of a day when I wouldn’t have to sneak size 24’s [new size!] in the corner to add them to my size smaller clothing pile. I envisioned a day when I would not be represented by the clothing size that I was and hoard beautiful clothing because I had put a month’s hunt in to get the perfect look and to find the one thing that made me look my age. Music helped me with that. For all the things that I could say about my time at Lane Bryant, I can say that their music was official. If you’re ever in a Lane Bryant stock-room, look for the summer 06’ play-mix. Outstanding! It was the downtown Brooklyn soundtrack of fun and happiness. It was the rallying call for women to sort clothing by size, and floor set with the best of them. Maybe the music was so good as to mask the hurt expressions on their customer’s faces when the biggest size in the store was still too tight. "Keep Smiling, Keep Shining.” But it didn’t do that for me. Its frequency was right with my tempo.
My tempo, however, was always varied but my Brooklyn couldn’t be hidden. Those original playlists that I created and that were played in LB were a poem of my life, homage to my rejuvenation:
Woo Hah! It Tricky but Work It, Amante
Pump It with the Flava in Ya Ears
Loose Control at the Crossroads
Ready or Not, Lucifer I’m gonna chase you out of here
I had to merge all the music from the past and the present to begin to feel that I was finally coming full circle. From 7 to 22, I had forgotten how music could make me move. So to Biggie, Busta Rhythmes, Missy, Black Eyed Peas, Craig Mac, Run DMC, Bone thugs N Harmony, Fugees and Jay- Z thanks for helping me work on the demons while I tried to build up my fitness. I knew then as I know now that for the majority of the time, it would always be rap, no soothing lullabies of R&B, no melodic sounds of alternative rock. I had done enough soothing and I was putting myself into the ninth level of Dante’s hellacious Inferno. I wanted my lungs to burn for my past indiscretions, and wanted my muscles to scream in happiness for years of neglect. I was paying attention to my person, and I had music to thank for that.
I was still only three months in, but I had fourteen playlists. There was one for every day of the week, and seven more to just change up the mood. Their titles are still firmly planted on my computer to be summoned at will at any time. I bought a shuffle out of my meager paycheck [after my diligent Gen 3 I-pod retired after 4 yrs of service], and I was making it work for me. I still have it and use it for the gym; though the color has now changed. I discovered a part of myself through that music, and while I always loved Rap/Hip Hop I would have never thought that it would become the background to my weight-loss. I could relate to stories of struggle and pain, and while they all did not always coincide with mine, the hurt was evident on all levels. I understood the brashness of those voices and the melodic entrapment of commitment to be in a better place. The music waltzed and wooed me down fourteen sizes. It changed its approach over the past 2.5yrs and threw some eclectic elements that represented all my musical tastes. The Killers snuck in with U2 in toe. I was happy to see them. They didn’t normally get attention during my workouts. But they understood. I needed Rap in the beginning to get me going. Music knew that.
I can always appreciate anything or anyone that understands that I need complete harmony in my life. My playlists couldn’t stay one genre, because I’m not one genre. Thanks Music. And Music, in case you didn’t know it because I know I don’t say it that much, I love you too.
Sidenote: That first playlist will be posted, if you’re looking for something to get you started.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
A Difference?
There was something inside me that was just off. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I knew that I was starting to feel a little differently. I wasn’t sure if it came from the battle with Myself or if being aware of all the things that I was eating was making a difference in the way that I felt about who I was becoming. I didn’t feel like a garbage disposal. I wasn’t consuming mass quantities of Snapple in the middle of the night. Even my size twenty-sixes were ,dare I say, becoming loose. I needed a belt for the first time in recent memory and didn’t have to worry about opening buttons after I had eaten something to accommodate my growing stomach. Come to think of it, my stomach wasn’t growing! This was unheralded. My stomach had been growing since I was seven and it apparently wasn’t happy with the equation either [yet another coupe going on in this body of mine]. I was eating, but not until the point of a mild food induced coma. I was tightening up my abs while I was walking, because I felt that I was nowhere near ready to plant my back, my bottom, or my head on a squishy mat and attempt a crunch (that would not happen until almost six months down the line). There was some hardness under those four rolls. My always toned calves were getting more firm, and for the first time, I was really appreciating the beauty of the strength in those legs, and not hiding them in jeans. I wanted to wear a skirt. But that somehow scared me as well. I had already cast aside shorts long ago. Those multi-lengthened [sometime Capri, sometime Bermuda, sometimes way to far up in places that they should not go] pieces of friction and bunching would not and had not been on this body in roughly twelve years. For the time being I wanted to keep it that way. But I could work with a skirt.
I love skirts (and now own about thirty of them), but I just didn’t feel confident wearing them all the time. I worried about what would happen should my summer / all year baby-powder supply disappear in the still of the night (captured by some rogue Baby- Powder Gnome) and leave me with thigh rubs. I know how this could sound, but you’d be amazed what sort of mental and physical tricks your mind will play on you when you’re in the process of betterment. It doesn’t matter what size you are or how many pounds you have to lose, there is always an excuse; especially in the beginning.
The first skirt on the journey to change was denim and it represented everything I loved about a good skirt. It was A-lined, as to pull away from my thighs, and it had a little bit of stretch to cover my front-butt, and third roll. I bought it at my go-to Lane Bryant and was excited when I had to get sales representative opinions on whether to buy the 26 or the 24. We all agreed on the 26 because the 24 was still a little tight. (By a little tight, I mean I threw myself up against the wall in the dressing room,made my stomach more concave by sucking it in, all the whilst I had sweat running down my face. I did all of that just to get that button to close. But my friends it did close! Hazah!)The image makes me sigh with nostalgia now, but in that moment I was so proud that I had even attempted to go a size down that my hands shook. Maybe this whole walking around and eating a little bit less thing was working. Trust me though, if they had a size 25 (which doesn’t exist) I would have been all over it! I needed a belt for my 26.
And while I sat there and stepped out of my new skirt, a thought hit me. How was it that if you’re an “average” size that you can get even numbers and odd numbers. While I know one represents juniors and the other misses, there’s no “junior plus size.” You’re just plus size, point blank period. I had no animosity towards my smaller friends and family but I was just curious. When you’re big you get the evens and wish that there were odd numbers in between to make you feel a little bit better about the digits on the back of your clothes. The psychological impacts of a 15 and not a 16, and the brevity of a 19 instead of a 20 are huge. You are just a little bit smaller than you could be. The retail mass market lines stop at 32 in store. What if that women out there was a 31 and could still shop outside of a catalogue? What if she were able to still go inside a dressing room and get sales rep opinions? How would she feel? But maybe retailers don’t see it that way. Maybe they feel that us plus size women and those who are either bottom heavy or top heavy should have been happy that we even had a market. Maybe we should have been happy that the silent clothing Big People Revolution of circa the late 80’s had gotten our clothes renamed from Husky to Plus. What was I adding to the Misses sizes that made me more aside from my waist measurements and my bust line? I'd like to think more awesomeness and love! Should Misses then be called Subtract Size, because to be less than Plus is better?NO! Isn't it true that for every darkness there is light? Should it become the great battle of the math properties? NO! It would be addition vs subtraction in a battle for ultimate supremacy. We know who should win. The average American women in 06' was a 14, and now in 09' is a 16. But what size are the people manufacturing the clothes?
For all the moments when I felt confident and sure and dressed to a T (my clothing collection from my trinity of stores was unmatched from years of a honed eye), it still wasn’t the same because I was told that it shouldn't be the same. For all of my embracing moments of prettiness and "fat" pride, there were still voices and stares. There were times when I wanted to channel the Civil Rights Movement: make signs, protest/ boycott any store that had the audacity to not sell anything above a 10 for women and a 38 for men. I wanted to rally people together and have a sit in with wonderful chats : “Hell no we wont go, We wont just buy accessories here anymore!!!” These stores were clearly throwing out vibes that we were unwanted, and that we could be separate but equal. I always felt comfortable in Lane Bryant but never Abercrombie or the Loft. Separate was not equal and it made us feel as such! That always applied to things beyond race for me. It made us long for the clothing styles that we could not find in our stores {no such thing as a halter, no such thing as a skinny jean at that time, and definitely no such thing as overtly go get em sexy} and made us cherish the silhouettes that mimicked smaller size in our own stores.
But that skirt changed so much for me. It was my peacemaker. While I was still angry and writing articles about Obese Discrimination for anyone that would publish them, I loved that skirt. I couldn’t be angry about it. I didnt care about misses in a skirt like that. It stopped about two inches above my knee instead of an inch past my knee, a slightly risque thing for me in those times, and it was a dark indigo wash. I must say, that skirt had some serious flare to it, and did something that my skirts normally didn’t do. It called attention to my legs with this new “tighter” cut and made me feel absolutely hands down ravishing. How could that be? It was the same exact size as my other skirts aside from the slight looseness, and it didn’t have any magic pixie dust sprinkled into it to decrease the width or depth of my thighs. So what was so different? Me? I just wanted to look beautiful in what I was wearing, and had always felt that way in jeans [at that point I had 22 pairs, and v neck shirts (you cant be 375 without accompanying cleavage)], but never in a skirt. And I began to realize over that first month that it didn’t really matter what size I was, but how I felt in the size that I was. I was shining. And while still confused about where this path was taking me, I was really looking forward to it and enjoying the silence of Myself in my head, at that moment, as I stood in the dressing room.
I love skirts (and now own about thirty of them), but I just didn’t feel confident wearing them all the time. I worried about what would happen should my summer / all year baby-powder supply disappear in the still of the night (captured by some rogue Baby- Powder Gnome) and leave me with thigh rubs. I know how this could sound, but you’d be amazed what sort of mental and physical tricks your mind will play on you when you’re in the process of betterment. It doesn’t matter what size you are or how many pounds you have to lose, there is always an excuse; especially in the beginning.
The first skirt on the journey to change was denim and it represented everything I loved about a good skirt. It was A-lined, as to pull away from my thighs, and it had a little bit of stretch to cover my front-butt, and third roll. I bought it at my go-to Lane Bryant and was excited when I had to get sales representative opinions on whether to buy the 26 or the 24. We all agreed on the 26 because the 24 was still a little tight. (By a little tight, I mean I threw myself up against the wall in the dressing room,made my stomach more concave by sucking it in, all the whilst I had sweat running down my face. I did all of that just to get that button to close. But my friends it did close! Hazah!)The image makes me sigh with nostalgia now, but in that moment I was so proud that I had even attempted to go a size down that my hands shook. Maybe this whole walking around and eating a little bit less thing was working. Trust me though, if they had a size 25 (which doesn’t exist) I would have been all over it! I needed a belt for my 26.
And while I sat there and stepped out of my new skirt, a thought hit me. How was it that if you’re an “average” size that you can get even numbers and odd numbers. While I know one represents juniors and the other misses, there’s no “junior plus size.” You’re just plus size, point blank period. I had no animosity towards my smaller friends and family but I was just curious. When you’re big you get the evens and wish that there were odd numbers in between to make you feel a little bit better about the digits on the back of your clothes. The psychological impacts of a 15 and not a 16, and the brevity of a 19 instead of a 20 are huge. You are just a little bit smaller than you could be. The retail mass market lines stop at 32 in store. What if that women out there was a 31 and could still shop outside of a catalogue? What if she were able to still go inside a dressing room and get sales rep opinions? How would she feel? But maybe retailers don’t see it that way. Maybe they feel that us plus size women and those who are either bottom heavy or top heavy should have been happy that we even had a market. Maybe we should have been happy that the silent clothing Big People Revolution of circa the late 80’s had gotten our clothes renamed from Husky to Plus. What was I adding to the Misses sizes that made me more aside from my waist measurements and my bust line? I'd like to think more awesomeness and love! Should Misses then be called Subtract Size, because to be less than Plus is better?NO! Isn't it true that for every darkness there is light? Should it become the great battle of the math properties? NO! It would be addition vs subtraction in a battle for ultimate supremacy. We know who should win. The average American women in 06' was a 14, and now in 09' is a 16. But what size are the people manufacturing the clothes?
For all the moments when I felt confident and sure and dressed to a T (my clothing collection from my trinity of stores was unmatched from years of a honed eye), it still wasn’t the same because I was told that it shouldn't be the same. For all of my embracing moments of prettiness and "fat" pride, there were still voices and stares. There were times when I wanted to channel the Civil Rights Movement: make signs, protest/ boycott any store that had the audacity to not sell anything above a 10 for women and a 38 for men. I wanted to rally people together and have a sit in with wonderful chats : “Hell no we wont go, We wont just buy accessories here anymore!!!” These stores were clearly throwing out vibes that we were unwanted, and that we could be separate but equal. I always felt comfortable in Lane Bryant but never Abercrombie or the Loft. Separate was not equal and it made us feel as such! That always applied to things beyond race for me. It made us long for the clothing styles that we could not find in our stores {no such thing as a halter, no such thing as a skinny jean at that time, and definitely no such thing as overtly go get em sexy} and made us cherish the silhouettes that mimicked smaller size in our own stores.
But that skirt changed so much for me. It was my peacemaker. While I was still angry and writing articles about Obese Discrimination for anyone that would publish them, I loved that skirt. I couldn’t be angry about it. I didnt care about misses in a skirt like that. It stopped about two inches above my knee instead of an inch past my knee, a slightly risque thing for me in those times, and it was a dark indigo wash. I must say, that skirt had some serious flare to it, and did something that my skirts normally didn’t do. It called attention to my legs with this new “tighter” cut and made me feel absolutely hands down ravishing. How could that be? It was the same exact size as my other skirts aside from the slight looseness, and it didn’t have any magic pixie dust sprinkled into it to decrease the width or depth of my thighs. So what was so different? Me? I just wanted to look beautiful in what I was wearing, and had always felt that way in jeans [at that point I had 22 pairs, and v neck shirts (you cant be 375 without accompanying cleavage)], but never in a skirt. And I began to realize over that first month that it didn’t really matter what size I was, but how I felt in the size that I was. I was shining. And while still confused about where this path was taking me, I was really looking forward to it and enjoying the silence of Myself in my head, at that moment, as I stood in the dressing room.
Monday, August 24, 2009
The Confrontation
There is a little me inside that has no name and craves for a voice. IT rises to the surface during times of stress and retreats to the safe place when questioned. That entity , that manifestation has existed from my first cognizant moment and remains dormant and resting; biding IT’s time. IT chose to go nameless as a perfect camouflage. Why would anyone attack something that is unknown? Why would I think that IT existed when It’s thoughts blended so seamlessly into my own. IT only really acquired a name and shape when I was hungry, or so I thought. But I got crafty. All the books that I had been reading all held the same unspoken cardinal rule: CONFRONT THYSELF!!
I forced IT to come out in a time that hunger did not exist, to realize why IT had to take over when I was eating. I had made a pact to lose weight in the most healthy and effective way possible but my whole person was not on board. This was a must for my immediate and long term success. Misery loves company and IT was miserable. IT was angry and felt betrayed by my obvious showings of disapproval. How dare I make such a decision without a proper consultation. Well I had damn it, and I told IT that IT had to suck it up or kick rocks altogether. I was making moves for me, and if IT only chose to exhibit anger by making me try to eat things that would make me feel horrible about myself then IT definitely wasn’t going to be making anymore appearances. It had been twelve days, and I had been secretly journaling. I knew the signs/ triggers. During times that I felt low I ate. During the times when I doubted myself and needed to do something to pass the time, I ate. But I had new strategies.
Darnisa Amante was moving like she had never moved before. I was a force, with a silent gushing wind: able to leap streets, avenues, boulevards with a slight nod to my New Balances. I was more powerful than your average 375lb person because I understood the path that I was meandering on. I was plowing through streets like I was an alphabetic map.: Albermarle, Atlantic, Bedford, Bushwich, Cleveland…. Lorimer. By the time we had our infamous conversation, I was working on the L’s. It was then that I knew regardless of how much walking I did, I had to battle that inner beast. Brooklyn, for as much as I loved it, could not smother that inner voice. IT began to vocalize while we waltzed through Brownsville. We noticed tall Brownstone buildings mingled with playgrounds with broken swings and accompanying monkey bars that had rusted from countless rainy days when a memory was triggered. Memories of trying to swing on those same rusty monkey bars like I was Lightning from American Gladiators playing Rings, and falling down. I remembered the way the other children laughed when I couldn’t support my upper body strength. I remembered my white and pink pound puppies with the Velcro straps. I was so proud of them back then. I was only seven. I ran home with my grandmother trailing behind me to escape the laughing and picked up a zebra cake and then a honey bun. Twas the birth of IT. I began to really prod and poke IT as the sun gently kissed the sky and when twilight crept into our peripheral.
IT had been hurt, pained and self-ridiculed. IT was nurtured in a place where a little black girl felt like she was the only one; where she was the only saving grace. IT became the miracle worker so to speak. And to deal with the pressure of the memories that kept me back from achieving my goals, IT became. I had split myself into two: Darnisa and IT. IT was reminding me of why it even existed in the first place. IT was not the demon but the martyr, sacrificing itself by not giving itself a name in the sake of preserving the larger. IT was screaming at me by this point. The silent battle that could never be logged in any historical journal waged onwards, because it happened in my head, circa June 14th 2006.
In my head IT shrieked for self-preservation and explanation:
What do you do when everything that you’ve done is to prove a point, and to prove someone wrong? Are you really doing this for yourself or to prove that doctor wrong? I have always been here for you whether you realized it or not, but I will not leave you be. To be you is to be me. How can you be successful without me when I am the reason that you are successful. I am not just here when you eat, I’m here when you refuse to cry because I make you not be able to cry. I am here when people let you down and if you start to work out who’s going to save you. Hm? Whose going to make those memories go away? Not me that’s who, because those nutrition books are striving to erase me! I will not let it happen. So go about what you need to but if you need me, you know where I will be. Right here, under the surface, biding my time until you need me to take the reigns again.
I was battling with myself only to realize that I had created another persona to justify my actions. Is this common? It was I that had done this. IT didn’t want to tell me IT’s name because to do so would give me power. Much like cultures that do not give their names as a way of maintaining their presence, IT would not be cast out. IT would not allow me to call it out like an exorcism. IT was afraid that I would exorcise IT by exercising. I wasn’t sure of how much weight I had lost in the process of walking and journaling but I did know that we had to get the UN into this conversation and reach a compromise instead of a constant stalemate.
We did reach a mini agreement that day. IT told me It's name. It wanted me to call IT…. myself.
I forced IT to come out in a time that hunger did not exist, to realize why IT had to take over when I was eating. I had made a pact to lose weight in the most healthy and effective way possible but my whole person was not on board. This was a must for my immediate and long term success. Misery loves company and IT was miserable. IT was angry and felt betrayed by my obvious showings of disapproval. How dare I make such a decision without a proper consultation. Well I had damn it, and I told IT that IT had to suck it up or kick rocks altogether. I was making moves for me, and if IT only chose to exhibit anger by making me try to eat things that would make me feel horrible about myself then IT definitely wasn’t going to be making anymore appearances. It had been twelve days, and I had been secretly journaling. I knew the signs/ triggers. During times that I felt low I ate. During the times when I doubted myself and needed to do something to pass the time, I ate. But I had new strategies.
Darnisa Amante was moving like she had never moved before. I was a force, with a silent gushing wind: able to leap streets, avenues, boulevards with a slight nod to my New Balances. I was more powerful than your average 375lb person because I understood the path that I was meandering on. I was plowing through streets like I was an alphabetic map.: Albermarle, Atlantic, Bedford, Bushwich, Cleveland…. Lorimer. By the time we had our infamous conversation, I was working on the L’s. It was then that I knew regardless of how much walking I did, I had to battle that inner beast. Brooklyn, for as much as I loved it, could not smother that inner voice. IT began to vocalize while we waltzed through Brownsville. We noticed tall Brownstone buildings mingled with playgrounds with broken swings and accompanying monkey bars that had rusted from countless rainy days when a memory was triggered. Memories of trying to swing on those same rusty monkey bars like I was Lightning from American Gladiators playing Rings, and falling down. I remembered the way the other children laughed when I couldn’t support my upper body strength. I remembered my white and pink pound puppies with the Velcro straps. I was so proud of them back then. I was only seven. I ran home with my grandmother trailing behind me to escape the laughing and picked up a zebra cake and then a honey bun. Twas the birth of IT. I began to really prod and poke IT as the sun gently kissed the sky and when twilight crept into our peripheral.
IT had been hurt, pained and self-ridiculed. IT was nurtured in a place where a little black girl felt like she was the only one; where she was the only saving grace. IT became the miracle worker so to speak. And to deal with the pressure of the memories that kept me back from achieving my goals, IT became. I had split myself into two: Darnisa and IT. IT was reminding me of why it even existed in the first place. IT was not the demon but the martyr, sacrificing itself by not giving itself a name in the sake of preserving the larger. IT was screaming at me by this point. The silent battle that could never be logged in any historical journal waged onwards, because it happened in my head, circa June 14th 2006.
In my head IT shrieked for self-preservation and explanation:
What do you do when everything that you’ve done is to prove a point, and to prove someone wrong? Are you really doing this for yourself or to prove that doctor wrong? I have always been here for you whether you realized it or not, but I will not leave you be. To be you is to be me. How can you be successful without me when I am the reason that you are successful. I am not just here when you eat, I’m here when you refuse to cry because I make you not be able to cry. I am here when people let you down and if you start to work out who’s going to save you. Hm? Whose going to make those memories go away? Not me that’s who, because those nutrition books are striving to erase me! I will not let it happen. So go about what you need to but if you need me, you know where I will be. Right here, under the surface, biding my time until you need me to take the reigns again.
I was battling with myself only to realize that I had created another persona to justify my actions. Is this common? It was I that had done this. IT didn’t want to tell me IT’s name because to do so would give me power. Much like cultures that do not give their names as a way of maintaining their presence, IT would not be cast out. IT would not allow me to call it out like an exorcism. IT was afraid that I would exorcise IT by exercising. I wasn’t sure of how much weight I had lost in the process of walking and journaling but I did know that we had to get the UN into this conversation and reach a compromise instead of a constant stalemate.
We did reach a mini agreement that day. IT told me It's name. It wanted me to call IT…. myself.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Emotions Smotions
Ninja status. That was the way that I approached the new path that I was taking in my life. Not only had I decided to camouflage the information that I was reading by using book covers but I also decided not to tell anyone what I was doing. I did not want the stress of not being successful in someone’s eyes or even worst yet letting someone down. How humiliating could it be to have not only let my weight get out of control but then to turn around and let the world [most specifically friends and family] know how I had left myself down. It couldn't happen.
I already knew that my food situation was a hugely contributing factor to why and how the scales were tipping but I decided to make a secret two week food journal that incorporated things that were eaten and emotions that were felt while eating them. It was one of the tricks that I had learned from one of the 20 books that I had read by this point, and added an Amante Remix by putting my emotions of paper. I had to pinpoint the culprits and pinpoint what was going on in my head when I was eating them. I look back on those entries now and see a lot of disruption. The first day of that plan, I decided not to eat less or doing anything differently.
Week 1, Day 1 of Secret FJ [food journal]: Breakfast (11:00am) Ihop Pancakes [3] with a chicken fajita omelet with ketchup and hot sauce, 2 cups of apple juice [32 oz] and a lot of Butter Pecan Syrup. Snack (1:30pm): 1 piece of Carrot Cake with a cup of 2% milk. Lunch (3:00pm) I turkey sandwich with mayo, mustard, lettuce, four pieces of turkey and 2 pieces of American Cheese w/ a Kiwi Strawberry Snapple. Dinner: (7:30pm) Chinese Food: General Tso Chicken with Chicken Fried Rice [entire carton], Duck Sauce, hot sauce, and 1 Sprite. 2nd Snack (12am): 1 Grapeade Snapple, with a Nature Valley Granola Bar.
Feelings for the day: Today I felt very overwhelmed and stressed out. I spent the entire day looking for a job and putting out resume’s, but for the bulk of the day aside from Ihop I stayed in the house. No one was home, so I finally got to eat my slice of carrot cake that had been sitting there forever. I really wanted to eat another piece for dinner but figured that my grandmother might say something since she’s home. I hate to admit it but the best feeling in the world is feeling full and I just don’t know how to stop. I want to be filled up and feel like when I get upset all I have to do Is eat and not have to worry about anything in the world. The best piece of my life is trying to compensate for lack of sleep at night by overeating to make myself sleep during the day. I want to be smaller but Lord help me if I have to drop my go to foods to get there. Maybe I should get the surgery, then I could lose the weight, be acceptable and not have to put the shame in my face. Why should I look back at my indiscretions and fault myself for what I eat. I know my body is a machine that should take in foods that it will burn but does it really matter if I use mine as a vessel for pain suppression. I miss my triangular lover and even as I write this the Orange package is glowering at me in accusation… "Leaving me alone doesn’t make the cravings you have nor your deeper subconscious want go away" is what they'd say. Stop staring at me package!
Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s a take a moment to reflect on this entry. I wish to the deepest depths of my soul that they were not true. But since that faithful day I have written down everything I eat with accompanying emotions for the last three years minus 6 months when I thought I had recovered,cured myself and subsequently relapsed. [Food is as much a drug as crack, except it has the nerve to be socially acceptable. You take it one day at a time with your 12 steps (we’ll go into those on another day]) What was I to do? With no money, how could I embark on all this great things that were being spoken about in all these books that I had been reading and salivating over the before and after pictures. So in a sense, let me synthesize what I could do. I decide that since I could not afford the gym membership nor all the cool weight loss equipment with my forty- dollars in the bank, I would journal and damn it by all means necessary MOVE AROUND. I looked for jobs on foot, and kept my secret journal for two weeks before I decided to take any action with my eating. I literally walked [unbeknowdst of my family] from my childhood home in Cypress Hills, past Broadway junction, down Fulton street and into the heart of downtown Brooklyn in two hours, and forced myself weather permitting to take the same route home. I “found” my pair of sneakers that I had bought while in college still complete with matching New Balance tag and bright brown box.
How fitting. I can say that now without self hate. I was looking for a new balance and those sneakers and I started our new relationship, much to the chagrin of my former lovers. And I mean all lovers, men included. I did not date for an entire yr in a hope to finally make something in my life completely about myself, and do the good thing and work on my fitness. It was hard, and challenging and simultaneously beautiful. The only voice in your head is your own, and while it was stressing I was able to really work on my food intake by not worrying about the customary date nights, date food, and stress from a relationship that might trigger me to binge eat. As I told you, you do not have to follow the same things that I did but I realized that I could never focus on me when everyone and everything else was more important than me. Simply Impossible.
Those sneakers and I are still in a relationship and yes they are more understanding now of other people in that equation [including a newer pair of sneakers that take me out twice a week]. And my friends, we have battled. From the days when I was breaking them in, from the days when I introduced them to running on pavement, to spinning, and to walking around Brooklyn. Now our relationship is much more peaceful. We don’t fight as much nor do we argue about the course of action for the morning. Now we simply look at each other and with agreed understanding we make a pact to wage war with the evil beings who prevented us from getting a good night’s sleep. I cant even count how many times we’ve kicked the mess out of my bed. Solidarity! Road Warriors and inseparable is what we are. But it wasn’t easy. Walking around Brooklyn on foot still doesn’t raise your heart rate, nor tone you up, or even get the pounds off the way you want. Everything I am now and feel now did not come from exploring my home borough. It came from confronting those emotions that I put on paper, and having a conversation with the little Darnisa who never had a nickname, never felt pretty, nor had any accomplishments to her name. I had to encourage her to let go, and to sync/ merge with the new adult Darnisa so we could have some peace.
I already knew that my food situation was a hugely contributing factor to why and how the scales were tipping but I decided to make a secret two week food journal that incorporated things that were eaten and emotions that were felt while eating them. It was one of the tricks that I had learned from one of the 20 books that I had read by this point, and added an Amante Remix by putting my emotions of paper. I had to pinpoint the culprits and pinpoint what was going on in my head when I was eating them. I look back on those entries now and see a lot of disruption. The first day of that plan, I decided not to eat less or doing anything differently.
Week 1, Day 1 of Secret FJ [food journal]: Breakfast (11:00am) Ihop Pancakes [3] with a chicken fajita omelet with ketchup and hot sauce, 2 cups of apple juice [32 oz] and a lot of Butter Pecan Syrup. Snack (1:30pm): 1 piece of Carrot Cake with a cup of 2% milk. Lunch (3:00pm) I turkey sandwich with mayo, mustard, lettuce, four pieces of turkey and 2 pieces of American Cheese w/ a Kiwi Strawberry Snapple. Dinner: (7:30pm) Chinese Food: General Tso Chicken with Chicken Fried Rice [entire carton], Duck Sauce, hot sauce, and 1 Sprite. 2nd Snack (12am): 1 Grapeade Snapple, with a Nature Valley Granola Bar.
Feelings for the day: Today I felt very overwhelmed and stressed out. I spent the entire day looking for a job and putting out resume’s, but for the bulk of the day aside from Ihop I stayed in the house. No one was home, so I finally got to eat my slice of carrot cake that had been sitting there forever. I really wanted to eat another piece for dinner but figured that my grandmother might say something since she’s home. I hate to admit it but the best feeling in the world is feeling full and I just don’t know how to stop. I want to be filled up and feel like when I get upset all I have to do Is eat and not have to worry about anything in the world. The best piece of my life is trying to compensate for lack of sleep at night by overeating to make myself sleep during the day. I want to be smaller but Lord help me if I have to drop my go to foods to get there. Maybe I should get the surgery, then I could lose the weight, be acceptable and not have to put the shame in my face. Why should I look back at my indiscretions and fault myself for what I eat. I know my body is a machine that should take in foods that it will burn but does it really matter if I use mine as a vessel for pain suppression. I miss my triangular lover and even as I write this the Orange package is glowering at me in accusation… "Leaving me alone doesn’t make the cravings you have nor your deeper subconscious want go away" is what they'd say. Stop staring at me package!
Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s a take a moment to reflect on this entry. I wish to the deepest depths of my soul that they were not true. But since that faithful day I have written down everything I eat with accompanying emotions for the last three years minus 6 months when I thought I had recovered,cured myself and subsequently relapsed. [Food is as much a drug as crack, except it has the nerve to be socially acceptable. You take it one day at a time with your 12 steps (we’ll go into those on another day]) What was I to do? With no money, how could I embark on all this great things that were being spoken about in all these books that I had been reading and salivating over the before and after pictures. So in a sense, let me synthesize what I could do. I decide that since I could not afford the gym membership nor all the cool weight loss equipment with my forty- dollars in the bank, I would journal and damn it by all means necessary MOVE AROUND. I looked for jobs on foot, and kept my secret journal for two weeks before I decided to take any action with my eating. I literally walked [unbeknowdst of my family] from my childhood home in Cypress Hills, past Broadway junction, down Fulton street and into the heart of downtown Brooklyn in two hours, and forced myself weather permitting to take the same route home. I “found” my pair of sneakers that I had bought while in college still complete with matching New Balance tag and bright brown box.
How fitting. I can say that now without self hate. I was looking for a new balance and those sneakers and I started our new relationship, much to the chagrin of my former lovers. And I mean all lovers, men included. I did not date for an entire yr in a hope to finally make something in my life completely about myself, and do the good thing and work on my fitness. It was hard, and challenging and simultaneously beautiful. The only voice in your head is your own, and while it was stressing I was able to really work on my food intake by not worrying about the customary date nights, date food, and stress from a relationship that might trigger me to binge eat. As I told you, you do not have to follow the same things that I did but I realized that I could never focus on me when everyone and everything else was more important than me. Simply Impossible.
Those sneakers and I are still in a relationship and yes they are more understanding now of other people in that equation [including a newer pair of sneakers that take me out twice a week]. And my friends, we have battled. From the days when I was breaking them in, from the days when I introduced them to running on pavement, to spinning, and to walking around Brooklyn. Now our relationship is much more peaceful. We don’t fight as much nor do we argue about the course of action for the morning. Now we simply look at each other and with agreed understanding we make a pact to wage war with the evil beings who prevented us from getting a good night’s sleep. I cant even count how many times we’ve kicked the mess out of my bed. Solidarity! Road Warriors and inseparable is what we are. But it wasn’t easy. Walking around Brooklyn on foot still doesn’t raise your heart rate, nor tone you up, or even get the pounds off the way you want. Everything I am now and feel now did not come from exploring my home borough. It came from confronting those emotions that I put on paper, and having a conversation with the little Darnisa who never had a nickname, never felt pretty, nor had any accomplishments to her name. I had to encourage her to let go, and to sync/ merge with the new adult Darnisa so we could have some peace.
Friday, August 21, 2009
A Revelation and a New Beginning
So the question to ask is what does one do when they find out that they’re only 25 pounds from a weight that starts with a 4. I did anything that any self respecting woman would do. I polled my girlfriends with the general questions: how big do I look when I put on these clothes? If you had to guess what weight I was, what would it be? The resounding poll results came back just as I had expected… 310, at most. I sat and shouted with inner triumph and pain. The moment had to be: could I live for the rest of my life looking like I was 310 or could I actually get to 310 and look like I was 270 or even smaller yet. Though I hated what it would actually mean to start losing weight, I figured that getting smaller to look smaller couldn’t actually hurt. The only problem was that I had no job, no money, student loans kicking in, bad eating habits and the determination to prove another person that I didn’t know from a brick wall wrong. What was I thinking, and thank you God for letting me think it when I was 22.
I remember the day that I did the Darnisa unthinkable. I walked into the library and picked up a book on nutrition. The path of my life has always been one that steered toward the library, to the point of intervention status. “My name is Darnisa and I'm a Doritos snacking, weight-loss avoiding, driven, non sleeping bibliophile. Thank You.” But never had I gone in and checked out a book that would make people turn and shake their heads in agreement when I sat on the train. She should have done this years ago.Why do you look 30 when you’re only 22? [I still look back at those photos now at 24.5 and wonder why I looked so much older than I am right now] Those were the thoughts that I assumed people were thinking when they gave me that [ and I'm sure every “big” person out there knows it] stare. That look that pierces right through you and questions with a slight cock to the head how you could have let yourself go. Please let it be known that whoever invented that non subtle social cue to get yourself together should be jailed, and feathered, and maimed. It makes people feel belittled in the moment, and ashamed behind closed doors; left to find their own comforting vices.
So I got old fashioned. I walked into staples and bought some book covers, complete with a set of scotch tape to hide what I was attempting to do. I got ten, and figured with my fast reading pace I could check out ten books at a time [not sleeping and being able to read 100 pages an hr calls for a lot of nutrition reading!] I was never a person who dieted, never followed any statistics that stated the average American woman has dieted at least ten times in her lifetime. Hell no. If this is you and you’ve attempted the yo-yo dieting and the lose the last ten pounds for this event person I completely commend you. But how long did it stay off? For me, it’s you go big or you go home. I'm an extremist in the true sense of the word, and back then I wasn’t ready to take baby steps. I was ready to throw my whole life into a whirling dervish for the sake of living the life I always pictured in my head. I understood that I was never going to be a size 4; these bones would not support such a thing. Ive got big hands, big feet, and topped off with a big head… I could be happy with a healthy 10/12. Those numbers to me existed only in thought, only in nonplus size stores where I wanted to shop. I was tired of my trinity of stores: Lane Bryant, Macy's Plus, and Ashley Stewart. Casual clothes were bought from LB, more dressy/ going out wanting to look my age attempts from Macy's, and Ashley simply provided some color and acceptable jacket options. When I started this journey, I was a 26 and most definitely had not seen a 10/12 since I was ten or twelve. No pun intended but when I was 12, I was 206. 375 at 22 should have only been expected.
Shortly after picking up that first book, the thing that I realized was that my eating style was going to completely have to change. I grew up in a family of transplanted southerners by way of third generation Brooklyn kitchen smashers. And I too had followed the line of great cooking with lots of fried food infused with pasta and rice [an homage to my Italian Puerto Rican grandfather] with customary sides of greens, yams, potato salad and off course my beloved corn bread homemade stuffing. Yes, they were my friends and most times my confidants. The food listened to everything that I couldn’t express, and provided a shield to my confused rationale. Darnisa, do you know why you eat? NO. Darnisa, do you know why that guy you like doesn’t like you back? NO. Well that’s ok, but lets have another Dorito and think about it later.
I was convinced I was dealing with my problems! It became clear that dealing with my problems meant that I was going to have to divorce my food. I was not happy, I don’t believe in divorce and clearly we had a good thing going…. there could have been triangular-shaped round nosed babies in my future! What kind of sick person would deny me such a future. Apparently that sick person, who wanted to be healthy, had to be me. I broke up my own marriage and to this day still miss little pieces of that relationship. And while I'm glad I did it, it came with a lot of cost. I haven't had a Dorito since June 2, 2006 [ I off course had to have a binge the night after the doc told me his news], and the path to eating well would change the way I completely viewed myself and in affect the way I was viewed.
I was on my way from 375, size 26, size 55' waist, student loans and manned with a library card to 175, size 10/12 [thank you bones ;)], still having student loans and the ever present Brooklyn library card!
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