It occurred to me the other day that 15 years ago, I was in high school. It’s a profound sort of moment, believe it or not. Half my life ago, I was halfway done with being a teenager. It’s amazing to think how far and long I’ve traveled carrying the 15 year old Stacie inside of my brain, how much that girl has impacted (and impacts still) the woman I have become. That girl causes hiccups in the way I think about myself even today.
As a teenager, I was not an unattractive girl. I blossomed earlier than most of my friends. By high school, I was already to my adult height, amply gifted with those certain endowments of womanhood, and was one of the lucky few in my age range who didn’t experience acne. I was in the top 5% of my class. I had also emerged from my shell to become quite the performer in drama and show choir. I was a leader for our mock trial team, winning state recognition as best witness and attorney in 2005 and 2006, respectively. I was the very definition of an over achiever. To look at my high school yearbook, you would think that I was the happiest, most popular kid outside of fiction.
I was also a solid size 12.
Yeah, now I know that size 12 is not a bad thing. Heck, I don’t think it should have mattered to me then. To look at a picture of me with my friends, you’d never know that I thought I was “the fat one” because I didn’t actually look larger than any of them. It was sort of the difference between looking at a photo of Cameron Diaz versus Catherine Zeta Jones: not thin versus fat, but slight versus curvy. I couldn’t make that reconciliation at 15. I could only see that my friends were size 6-8 and I was a size 12. I could only see that most of my girlfriends couldn’t stay single and that I was perpetually so. In my mind, all of that could have been fixed with the loss of 10-30 pounds.
Not Pictured Here: The Fat One
Sure, it didn’t help that most of the girls would complain about their own insecurities on a regular basis. A friend saying “Omigah, I’m so fat” would immediately get transformed in my mind to add “and Stacie’s even bigger than me.”
Of course, they weren’t thinking that or saying it to break my spirit. They, too, were 15 and burdened with the self-image that comes with being a teenager. Heck, some of them were probably battling their own eating disorders. That didn’t matter to 15 year old Stacie. She couldn’t hear that.
Old people from my church were a problem for my self-image, too. I want to go on record as to say that not all old people are evil. In fact, many use their powers for good. However, some old people, the Dark Ancients, I like to call them, were either too senile to understand that they were scarring me for life or, being near death, needed to try to suck the life out of something with some years left. Those Dark Ancients had no problem sharing their feelings about my size 12.
“Once you lose that baby fat, the boys’ll be beating down the doors.”
Old people from my church were a problem for my self-image, too. I want to go on record as to say that not all old people are evil. In fact, many use their powers for good. However, some old people, the Dark Ancients, I like to call them, were either too senile to understand that they were scarring me for life or, being near death, needed to try to suck the life out of something with some years left. Those Dark Ancients had no problem sharing their feelings about my size 12.
“Once you lose that baby fat, the boys’ll be beating down the doors.”
“Are you sure you want to eat dessert, honey? A moment on the lips, you know…”
But my “favorite” experience with an old person being too open about my weight was when I took the time to visit one of my Nana’s friends in the hospital. I was about a month into a diet. Said diet was going well and it showed. I had lost five pounds and was particularly proud of myself.
Pride goeth before a fall.
As I walked into the room with my mom, the woman immediately exclaimed,
But my “favorite” experience with an old person being too open about my weight was when I took the time to visit one of my Nana’s friends in the hospital. I was about a month into a diet. Said diet was going well and it showed. I had lost five pounds and was particularly proud of myself.
Pride goeth before a fall.
As I walked into the room with my mom, the woman immediately exclaimed,
“Oh, gooooood. You’re losing weight. I was worried you were going to let yourself get fat again.”
Right now is probably a good time to share that this woman was not in the hospital for anything that causes dementia or other ailments of the brain. She just felt it was alright to say that thought aloud. It was perfectly acceptable in her mind to tell an impressionable teenager that not only had she been fat, but fat enough to warrant it being on her thoughts.
Seriously, though, I cannot stress enough that this was the girl whose fatness made its way into her thoughts on a regular basis
I stayed polite as did my mother, which is something that I’m not sure I’d have had in me to do today. We finished the visit on a friendly note, leaving a beautiful bouquet of flowers in our wake. As we got into the car, Mom told me not to worry about it, that she was old and that old people said things like that sometimes. I gave Mom a big grin and told her that the fact that she said anything at all just meant that the diet was working and that it showed and that I wasn’t going to let it get to me.
Sometimes, I’m a very good actress.
When we got home, I trotted upstairs to my room, turned on my music, and sobbed into my pillow until I couldn’t breathe. I quit the diet shortly thereafter.
The yo-yo effect continued through college until my senior year when, at a hearty 210 pounds, I said “Enough”. I spent seven months getting down from a size 14 to a size 10. Then I moved 500 miles away from home to the lovely city of Richmond, VA and maintained that size for two years.
Now, if ever you want a fresh view on your body image, I highly recommend moving 500 miles away from your home town. From the moment I set foot in Richmond, I was no longer the fat girl. Every person I met was seeing me for the first time, not as the girl who
yo-yoed weight like a Cirque de Soliel act, but as an attractive, funny woman who was full of confidence.
I dated. For the first time in my life, I went out on dates with eligible men and decided whether or not I wanted to see them again. Okay, I only dated about four different guys before I met my husband, but that’s beside the point.
For the first time ever, I felt like I was liked for something other than my personality. I know that sounds like a crappy thing to feel good about, but I did. I wasn’t just the funny girl, the nice girl, the witty girl, but I was also the pretty girl. It was superficial. It was one of the seven deadlies. It was absolutely marvelous.
And then there came Lucas…
About six months into Lucas and my relationship, I was at 170 pounds and wearing size 8-10. I figured I could do better and began working out at Curves and doing Weight Watchers. Before long, I was working at Curves in between touring shows and got down to an eventual 145, the smallest I had been since 5th Grade. I wore a size 4-6 loosely and was ready to declare myself at goal. It was, as I recall, the most confident I’ve ever felt about myself.
When we got home, I trotted upstairs to my room, turned on my music, and sobbed into my pillow until I couldn’t breathe. I quit the diet shortly thereafter.
The yo-yo effect continued through college until my senior year when, at a hearty 210 pounds, I said “Enough”. I spent seven months getting down from a size 14 to a size 10. Then I moved 500 miles away from home to the lovely city of Richmond, VA and maintained that size for two years.
Now, if ever you want a fresh view on your body image, I highly recommend moving 500 miles away from your home town. From the moment I set foot in Richmond, I was no longer the fat girl. Every person I met was seeing me for the first time, not as the girl who
yo-yoed weight like a Cirque de Soliel act, but as an attractive, funny woman who was full of confidence.
I dated. For the first time in my life, I went out on dates with eligible men and decided whether or not I wanted to see them again. Okay, I only dated about four different guys before I met my husband, but that’s beside the point.
For the first time ever, I felt like I was liked for something other than my personality. I know that sounds like a crappy thing to feel good about, but I did. I wasn’t just the funny girl, the nice girl, the witty girl, but I was also the pretty girl. It was superficial. It was one of the seven deadlies. It was absolutely marvelous.
And then there came Lucas…
About six months into Lucas and my relationship, I was at 170 pounds and wearing size 8-10. I figured I could do better and began working out at Curves and doing Weight Watchers. Before long, I was working at Curves in between touring shows and got down to an eventual 145, the smallest I had been since 5th Grade. I wore a size 4-6 loosely and was ready to declare myself at goal. It was, as I recall, the most confident I’ve ever felt about myself.
Me at age 24
Foiled again.
Well, I never got down to 140. Quite frankly, I don’t think my body is supposed to be that small. Shortly thereafter, I had two years of illness and began the climb back up the scale. I lost a few pounds for my wedding and had been maintaining when, last week, I had my second “enough” moment.
No more maintaining.
No more status quo.
It’s time to try for real again.
I don’t expect it to be easy. Though I hide it fairly well, 15 year old Stacie still creeps into the back of my mind, touting failure. She still reminds me of how unfair it is that some people have it easy when it comes to body weight. She tells me that this time will be the same as all the other times and that I don’t have it in me to make this work. She’s loud. She’s obnoxious.
But, ultimately, she’s 15…
And she’s living in my house…
I think it’s about time to send that brat to her room.
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