A Brief History of Me.

If yo-yo dieting were a sport, I'd take the cake (pun intended). I've been on diets practically my entire life. As a kid, I wasn't obese, just a little bit bigger than all of my friends. I was the first one to reach my growth spurt, therefore I was the tallest out of my peers until everyone else caught up, and/or surpassed me (I've since leveled out at 5"5). I was always active too...I think I've tried every sport/dance class/activity at least once. My problem was always with food.

For as long as I can remember, my mother has suffered from eating disorders. Anorexia, Bulimia, you name it. I think it started sometime around college for her. Being the daughter of my grandfather...one of the most critical and, at times, unpleasant voices to be around...she felt the constant need to be perfect. My parents split when I was about 4, mostly due to my mother's mounting problems, including an increasing alcohol habit.

I've always been close with my mother. Despite her problems, I know that she loves me more than she loves herself. However, she hasn't always been the easiest person to be around. My dad couldn't take it anymore. The constant criticism, nagging, anxiety, denial of any problem whatsoever. You can't blame someone for wanting to get out of that. The bad started to overshadow any good.

Despite the divorce though, my dad has continued to be the best dad I could ever ask for. After the divorce, he moved about 5 hours away for a job, but every month, he flew me down to see him for the weekend. That's where my love of flying and (oddly enough) airports came from. I began flying by myself when I was about 7. My mom, or grandparents, would take me to the airport and watch me get on the plane (the good old days when you could get through security sans ticket). The pilot or flight attendant would come and get me for boarding, show me around the cockpit, take me to my seat. I met a lot of interesting people that way, one of which was a middle aged mother who I became pen pals with for a few years...she would send me different gifts and pictures for holidays and such. Anyway, after the flight landed, I'd wait until everyone de-boarded, then the flight attendant would come and get me. As I walked down the steps of the plane and onto the tarmac, I could see my family waiting for me in the window. After awhile it became routine. I loved it.

My dad re-married when I was about 7 as well, and I was lucky enough to inherit my stepmother, stepsister, and stepbrother. None of which I consider step. I consider my stepmother a real mother, as she has been there for me throughout my entire life. And my siblings are blood siblings without all the fighting and rivalry (well, for the most part). My dad sure picked em well. I couldn't tell you why, but as a kid, and even still today, my dad has always been sort of a hero to me. Between him and my stepmom, they were always the stable parents. The normal family life that every kids wants. Even to this day, I value my dad's opinion probably more than anyone else's.

Like I said before though, despite her problems, I've always been close with my mother. I've lived with her my entire life. We've had our fair share of ups and downs...trust me, plenty of downs...but through it all, we've remained intact. My mother loves with her whole heart and wants nothing more than everyone around her to be happy and content, even if that means she is not. To this day, I feel that she's still trying to make up for the mistakes she made while I was growing up.

Throughout my entire existence, I've known my mother to have issues with food. When I was a kid, she would take me out to different all-you-can-eat buffets and restaurants, sometimes multiple nights a week. As a kid, I just thought that she was treating us to dinner, nothing more. I ignored how many times she consecutively went to the bathroom throughout the meal. I ignored coming home to hear her throwing up in the bathroom. I ignored pitchers of vomit in the kitchen sink. To anyone, that would sound like an obvious and at times disgusting problem. But when you're a kid, and that's what you're used to seeing, it almost becomes natural, or you become oblivious. They don't educate you on eating disorders in elementary school. At least not in the early 90's. I just thought my mom was sick, or had to go to the bathroom, nothing more. She would take us to these restaurants and encourage me to eat with her, as if she had an allie, or maybe trying to convince herself that it was normal. Either way, I was just happy to be going out, rather than staying in. It wasn't until 6th or 7th grade that I realized what was going on. By then, I had heard the terms anorexia and bulimia, so I was pretty mortified when I heard the rumor at school that "Rebecca's mom is bulimic". I guess that's when I really accepted it.

Throughout this entire time, my mother was also heavy into a drinking problem. Although, once again, I didn't realize it was a problem. Thinking back, it was like 2 knives at once. Many times, on the way home from dinner, we would stop at the beer distributor so she could get her cases. I remember it like it was yesterday. Milwaukee Best. Sierra Nevada. You name it. Even when she started getting mean, I didn't associate it with the alcohol. My mother had a great job as an 8th grade English teacher at one of the best public schools in western Pennsylvania. She was beautiful and had plenty of friends. On weekends, she sang in a well-known blues band made up of other teachers, playing at fairs and festivals in the area. She surely couldn't have an alcohol and eating problem, right? Wrong. When my mother drank, she was mean. Not physical, just verbally mean. Insults were thrown around like candy at a parade. Mean insults. Mostly about my weight, calling me a "fat cow", and "worthless", among other, worse things, that I've seemingly blocked out. My mother was verbally abusive, however it was only when she drank. When she didn't drink, she was caring, doting, and everything you would want in a mother. Alcohol was the third person in our relationship. She would yell at me and call me names about my weight, yet the next night we would be at a buffet, with her telling me to eat more and get our money's worth. It was like a bad cycle.

I don't blame my mother for all of my eating problems, but I do blame her for some. Sure, I'm responsible for what goes into my mouth, and I'm responsible for having self-control, however it's a scientific fact that the habits you learn as a child stick with you for life. And those habits have proven hard to break.

I don't have a thyroid problem or anything like that. I know what the problem is. The problem is me. I know that I can successfully lose weight. I've done it plenty of times. My problem is sticking with it. Sticking with it after the initial 20-30 pounds are dropped. Sticking with it after I screw up one day. Sticking with it after I screw up one weekend. Just sticking with it. Period.

But enough is enough. It's time to overcome the past and begin fresh. Maybe my mom couldn't do it (although she is notably doing a hundred percent better than before), but I can. I'm still young and there's a lot that I want to do.

So, in honor of starting fresh, I had my "Last Supper" today. That is, last supper in terms of junk. I'm a waitress on the side, and last night was a horrible, with a capital H, night at work. The combination of stress and not eating all night from not getting a break (too busy in conjunction with the dishwasher walking out) resulted in me taking home a gargantuan slice of our chocolate layer cake. Now, this thing is massive. So massive that I ate half last night, and had to finish the other half today. I didn't want to waste the thing, as we're in a recession, and I didn't want to throw away any of the $4 that I spent on that ridiculous thing.

So, I finished it off this morning. And you know what? I feel sick now. Was it worth it? Not at all. I could have had one bite and that would have satisfied me. I guess your eyes can be bigger than your stomach at times.

Yup, this is the assailant. Don't say I didn't warn you.

So, I ask, how is it possible to put the past behind you and start fresh on your own? It's easy for someone on the outside to say "You have to want it." But those of us actually in the situation know the truth. We do want it, more than anyone could ever know. Sometimes it just feels so hopeless. And people telling you that you don't want it enough just makes it worse. No one is inside your head. Everyone is different. Everyone has a different thought process, and no one person in particular knows how difficult it can be for one person. Rather than getting frustrated, we need to support one another. When a person is mentally ready, everything will come together and they will be strong enough to overcome it. I guess time will tell if this time will be the charm.