Part 2 – The Heavy Years
1994.
I am 22 years old and newly pregnant. I am a struggling military wife who married a high school sweetheart. Like many high school romances, once real life sets in, real problems come crashing in with a vengeance. This young boy and I have a very different recall on how our relationship progressed and how a near 10-year marriage came to a horrific end. Out of respect for our two adult daughters, I will tread carefully in how I speak of these years, both now and moving forward.
What I think we can all agree on is that two young adults, with barely formed frontal lobes, made a decision to have a baby to save a marriage. A mere 15 months after our first daughter was born, we were welcoming in a second baby girl. I also think we can all agree that I put on a lot of weight.
The first pregnancy was difficult. I was placed on bed rest at about the fifth month and was going through a scary time in a state that was designed to be safe shelter. I spent four months isolated and mostly alone—physically, mentally, and emotionally. My dear friend and constant, food, was standing by and at the ready to soothe my broken soul. As we made our way through 1995, food delivery service was gaining popularity and provided me access to my drug dealer from bed.
Thirty-six weeks and 80 pounds later, our first baby girl was born.
Six months after that, I discovered I was pregnant again. The first trimester was plagued by such severe, all-day sickness that I actually lost a few pounds. Thankfully, the activity of chasing a toddler prevented me from gaining as much the second time around. By the time I delivered our second daughter, I was twenty-four years old and weighing approximately 250 pounds.
The weight was a constant reminder that I was betraying my body, but it was also a shield. Food was an ongoing romance, a comforter, an escape. It also kept me from straying. There was a deep-rooted, subconscious survival mechanism calling the shots: If I stay fat, no one else will want me. If no one wanted me, I wouldn’t be tempted to leave or seek solace in another person. Food was an adequate, albeit silent, substitute lover.
My eating habits became secretive and out of control. I took every opportunity to guide my car through a drive-thru, hiding the wrappers afterward and taking solace in a tummy that was painfully full. Feeling that low, dull ache of physical fullness was better than contending with the mental, spiritual, and emotional pain I faced daily.
By 2001, the marriage was over. I was twenty-nine, newly divorced, and finally out from under the weight of that first high school romance. I had been unemployed since 1995 and was now technically a “welfare mom.” I fought hard to regain my identity and build a life for my two daughters.
The “divorce diet” is a real phenomenon. I dropped to my lowest weight in years, finally sliding back under the 200-pound mark. A wonderful therapist guided, encouraged, and supported me to this particular crossroads. For the first time in a decade, I felt grateful, hopeful, and caught a glimpse of my authentic self. Looking back, I should have taken the time to fully heal from those first ten years—to really dig in and do the hard work.
But what’s a young divorcee to do?
Hook up with her neighbor.
I thought I was heralding a new, brighter chapter with partner number 3. By 2004, we were welcoming baby number three into the mix. Eight months later—because why not?—we made it official and got married.
They call it “baby weight,” but by the time my third child arrived, I realized that term was a polite lie. For me, the weight was becoming a permanent archive of my survival. Between the stress of a new marriage and the demands of three children, I wasn’t just “thick” anymore; I was moving into a different category of existence. I was extremely morbidly obese and there was no denying it.
By 2012, I was forty years old. My firstborn was nearly an adult, and I was still wearing the eighty pounds and more that I’d put on while on bed rest back in 1995. My youngest was eight. I was nearing 300 pounds.
My husband loved me at any size and for that I was grateful He met me at my thinnest and as our story ended I was at my heaviest.
That was the day my world collapsed.
If you have read this far, please check back in on Tuesday for the final entry of this three-part series. I would appreciate a like, a follow, or a share if you enjoy my work.