One Small Decision

One day, I changed.

No fanfare. No Facebook announcement. Just one small decision.

It was February, 2018. I was in my mother’s condo, in Florida. Although she lives alone, her space is shared with a collection of Disney memorabilia so vast, that when I post a picture of it, people assume I am in a hotel on Disney property. Disney is everywhere; maps of the parks on the walls, framed photos and posters, cookie jars, utensils, plates, cups, magnets, dish towels… you name it, it has the mark of WDW on it. Her couches are Ethan Allen, Disney collection, of course. Her ceiling fan pulls are embellished with the most famous mouse couple in the world. Her bathrooms had big fluffy towels in either black, white or red, the theme colors of my mom’s most beloved Mickey Mouse. When you stepped out of a shower, you stepped directly onto Mickey’s plush face from his bathmat position, his eyes looking straight up your towel. The sheets had dancing, spinning Mickeys to match the bedspreads, so thick and luxurious, dotted with the same beloved cartoon. There was a talking Mickey phone, which spouted a series of quips in that unmistakable mouse voice, if mice actually could talk. To top it off, she was only a ten minute drive to the four parks which comprised Walt Disney World.

My daughter was in a fetal position in the guest room recovering from a series of panic attacks at the Magic Kingdom 24 hours prior.

The juxtaposition of the permanently elated animated characters surrounding every inch of the physical space I was in versus the darkness enveloping my deeply depressed daughter did not escape me.

So much for the Happiest Place on Earth.

There wasn’t anything I could do for her until we went back to NYC. Worrying about finding the right psychiatrist, trying medications, navigating the insurance, regulating dosages, continuing with talk therapy, finding a group therapy… would wait for another day.

I escaped my new reality by scrolling on my phone. Looking through my Facebook newsfeed at least gave me a bit of distraction from the road I knew I needed to navigate soon enough. For now, I would live through others postings of their best smiles in their filtered photos. Their picture of a moment in time, which may truly be a happy life event, or simply one posed for, reshot ten times, edited, and finally posted to show others that their life is really one to be envious of, even as their child goes off to their room, slams the door, and plugs themselves into various electronic devices with screens for the rest of the night. One can never tell.

What we can tell is that Facebook has the uncanny ability to passively listen and target its audience with just the right advertisements.

There was an ad for Weight Watchers.

Any fat girl, or former fat girl, knows diets and nutrition like the back of their hand. The girls who have watched their weight rise and fall as they surfed the edges of the newest/latest/most promising way of eating, until falling with a titanic splash back into the sea of bad habits, sweeping them under with both comfort of familiarity and panic of being unable to breathe again.

I have been on Atkins, the high protein, low carb plan, which is similar to the newest diet du jour Keto craze. I have eaten as a vegetarian, dabbled in veganism, tested Isagenix, calorie counted, starved myself, and have used pharmaceutical help, both legal and non.

I could tell you how many calories in 1 gram of carbohydrate (4) while a gram of fat has more than double that (9). I could tell you how many calories were packed into an avocado (depends upon the weight, but 45 calories per ounce, which is loaded with healthy fat, so to really understand this idea one must understand saturated versus non-saturated, making me thankful that I took organic chemistry for my Biology degree requirement). I could tell you how much protein you should consume if you’re counting macros (between .7-1.0 gram per pound of body weight, and again putting those higher level math classes to good use. Whew.) And Drink. That. Water. (At least half your body weight in ounces, obviously.)

Do not discount the amount of knowledge in a serial dieter’s head. Every fat chick/former fat chick/looks-in-the-mirror-and-sees-a-fat-chick knows more about nutrition and the contradicting, fluctuating plethora of nutritional information than a genetically predisposed skinny chick who never had to diet once in her fucking life.

(Until menopause, that is. Then all bets are off. Mother Nature loves a cruel joke.)

The Grande Dame of the weight loss world was Weight Watchers. I have been on three or four incarnations of the program. Seeing the ad in front of my face, coupled with Oprah’s rallying cry on the television commercials, along with the discount offered to me through email via my union, on top of my feeling adrift in a sea of confusion of navigating my daughter’s need for psychiatric meds pushed me towards the diet lifeboat yet again. Weight Watchers it would be. Again.

I always wondered why companies whose purpose it was to create a system for you to lose weight would be in business with long term customers, but that answer is painfully obvious. The research uncovers a brutal truth. Long term weight loss appears to be next to impossible, with some studies showing 95% of people who have lost a significant amount of weight regaining some, all, or more over the long term. These diet companies cash in on the fact that weight loss can work in the short term, but ingrained habits, damaged metabolism, psychological muscle memory and simply loving the fucking chocolate cake because it tastes so delicious creates a customer for life.  Lose the weight, yes! But wait! They will be back signing up soon enough.

I decided to start small. I would try Weight Watchers again, with its user friendly app to simply be accountable to myself as far as my portion sizes went. Not only am I obsessed with food, GOOD food, but I have a voracious appetite. I love to eat and eat A LOT. I am hungry when others have long ago hit their point of satiety. I am never quite sure where mine is. Portion control would be key for me, as well as low calorie, high volume foods. In Weight Watchers speak, this translates to foods low in “points.”

I always thought it was a good thing I liked fruits and vegetables. My problem was not soda, nor was it the drive-thru; I did not eat fast food. I am an emotional binge eater. I craved carbs, in the form of bread, cakes, cookies, chocolate. I ate in the place called Secret. I hid wrappers in my garbage. I did not eat crappy food choices in front of others, but ran to my dark place, Secret, to indulge my compulsions.

I remember, decades ago, a lifetime ago, when I went food shopping and bought a box of Pop Tarts and ate the entire box in my car. Alone. I shoved the empty packages into my glove compartment so my pre-husband boyfriend wouldn’t see them. I strategically threw the evidence out in some trash can I passed on the street. Hiding. Embarrassed. Guilty. Shameful. The feelings of addiction. Feelings of depression.

Friends and family may not have seen the actual out-of-control binge. They may not even notice the depression behind the happy mask, the cheerful façade it creates. But there are cracks in that disguise, and the sadness seeps through. The anxiety manifests, in my case as control, with its rigid life rules I chose to follow. And I was fat. Everyone can see that. No escaping that visual, no matter how perfect you believe your mask to be.

I, again, chose this plan to control my portions, but I coupled it with the idea that no matter what, I’m not quitting. No throwing in the towel. If I ate something high in calories or not on my plan, I would start again with the next bite. Not tomorrow. Not next Monday.

If I binged, and I would because you do not become a new person overnight after decades of the same fucked up behavior, I would pick myself up, forgive myself, and start eating the way I needed to in order to get the long term results I wanted.

I left Florida armed with a plan and an idea that may see me through.

Change starts with one small decision.

Nothing more.