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.
Monday, August 31, 2009
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!
Thursday, August 20, 2009
A Welcome
For the longest of times, I have sat back and thought about all the things that I desired. In the midst of searching for myself and trying to find an adequate balance, I decided to take everyone on the journey with me. All that I have desired in life is the typical yet unspoken American Dream: beauty, happiness, and ultimately thinness. Over the course of the last three years I have embarked on a grueling, rewarding and sometimes disappointing journey; to loose all the weight that I had spent twenty-two years amassing. This blog is a testament to that journey and will offer advice, recipes [from my own creations], thoughts and fitness plans that helped me get to where I have been and ultimately where I strive to be again.
My story begins with my craving for Doritos. It was the perfect little triangular chip that fulfilled a series of wants and masked a life of disappointment and pain. It was acceptable for me to indulge in a bag of those oh so cheesy Nacho chips, laced with salsa and smothered in another layer of cheddar cheese. No one could know nor even guess that I was on the verge of a mental break. Coming to the realization that I come from a long line of addicts. Everyone choosing their own vice that would help them cope with the things that life was throwing at them. For me, what better outlet could there have been than food. It allowed me to socialize, to be happy, and to isolate simultaneously. It was at the time what I thought to be my perfect weapon... Until it turned on me. After returning from college, I should have been at the highest pinnacle of my life. I had gotten two bachelors, a masters and numerous accolades. Yet I just wasn't feeling well. It was at that point that I decided to go see an adult doctor, and banish my cherished pediatrician whom I had used until my 22nd birthday.
Walking into the office, I was not afraid of what would be said about my asthma, or whether I might have anxiety resulting from my mass insomnia, no. I was worried about what the scale was going to say. The last time that I had been on a scale I weighed in at a comfy [for me] 262 but looked about 230 [the blessing and the curse. I always look forty pounds smaller because of my build] I was only 18 then. Now it had been four years, three countries, two newly acquired languages and one heartbreak under my belt. The scale looked back at me, and as the doctor continued to push the number past my comfy 262, past an alarming 300, and further still past 350 my heart dropped. I was the successful one, the one that even while big lit up the room with my humor. Because while I was fat, I was still always "hilarious" and smart. My right hand companions. How could I be successful and still have the scale casually perusing past 350? What would people think of the girl that always carried her weight well, starting to look sloppy and sloven and dare I say beyond obese? I couldn't look. But he told me anyway.... 375. Only twenty-five pounds away from 400. The weight alone should have scared me, but what he later said would spur me into action. "Miss, you're going to die. Might I add that you are the perfect candidate for gastric bypass. I can get you the consultation today if you want, but trust me there is no way that you can loose all this weight on your own. You're going to fail."
I wish that was something that I could make up and I wish that I would have never heard it, but if anyone knows me they know that it was a battle cry. How dare you tell me what I cant do? So on that faithful day of June 1, 2006 I set out to not only prove him wrong but to loose 200 pounds. I was going to do it on my own, with my own methods, and without surgery. Didn't this man know that I had student loans. Unacceptable. I was going to do it and put myself through hell if needs be to apply all of my academic know withal to nutrition, fitness and go on the craziest lifestyle change imaginable. This was something that a diet could not fix. I had to change me and stop living like neither the confederacy nor the civil war and stop waring with myself. I had to become united, and be whole without the dependency of food...
My story begins with my craving for Doritos. It was the perfect little triangular chip that fulfilled a series of wants and masked a life of disappointment and pain. It was acceptable for me to indulge in a bag of those oh so cheesy Nacho chips, laced with salsa and smothered in another layer of cheddar cheese. No one could know nor even guess that I was on the verge of a mental break. Coming to the realization that I come from a long line of addicts. Everyone choosing their own vice that would help them cope with the things that life was throwing at them. For me, what better outlet could there have been than food. It allowed me to socialize, to be happy, and to isolate simultaneously. It was at the time what I thought to be my perfect weapon... Until it turned on me. After returning from college, I should have been at the highest pinnacle of my life. I had gotten two bachelors, a masters and numerous accolades. Yet I just wasn't feeling well. It was at that point that I decided to go see an adult doctor, and banish my cherished pediatrician whom I had used until my 22nd birthday.
Walking into the office, I was not afraid of what would be said about my asthma, or whether I might have anxiety resulting from my mass insomnia, no. I was worried about what the scale was going to say. The last time that I had been on a scale I weighed in at a comfy [for me] 262 but looked about 230 [the blessing and the curse. I always look forty pounds smaller because of my build] I was only 18 then. Now it had been four years, three countries, two newly acquired languages and one heartbreak under my belt. The scale looked back at me, and as the doctor continued to push the number past my comfy 262, past an alarming 300, and further still past 350 my heart dropped. I was the successful one, the one that even while big lit up the room with my humor. Because while I was fat, I was still always "hilarious" and smart. My right hand companions. How could I be successful and still have the scale casually perusing past 350? What would people think of the girl that always carried her weight well, starting to look sloppy and sloven and dare I say beyond obese? I couldn't look. But he told me anyway.... 375. Only twenty-five pounds away from 400. The weight alone should have scared me, but what he later said would spur me into action. "Miss, you're going to die. Might I add that you are the perfect candidate for gastric bypass. I can get you the consultation today if you want, but trust me there is no way that you can loose all this weight on your own. You're going to fail."
I wish that was something that I could make up and I wish that I would have never heard it, but if anyone knows me they know that it was a battle cry. How dare you tell me what I cant do? So on that faithful day of June 1, 2006 I set out to not only prove him wrong but to loose 200 pounds. I was going to do it on my own, with my own methods, and without surgery. Didn't this man know that I had student loans. Unacceptable. I was going to do it and put myself through hell if needs be to apply all of my academic know withal to nutrition, fitness and go on the craziest lifestyle change imaginable. This was something that a diet could not fix. I had to change me and stop living like neither the confederacy nor the civil war and stop waring with myself. I had to become united, and be whole without the dependency of food...
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