The Terrors of Teaching: Part I

The Terrors of Teaching: Part I

First and foremost, I love being an educator. I decided when I was in elementary school that teaching was what I wanted to do with my life. I also wanted to be a fashion designer, a singer, and an actress; teaching was always on the top of my list, though.

I have taught for 7 years. I returned to the school from which I graduated many years ago. Walking down the halls during my first couple of years, I was fill with a variety of emotions. There is one stop that alumni refer to as The Indian Tile. Each time I would cross that section, an area where many of us would meet up between classes, I felt like I was being transported to the past.

I was an academically advanced student and I was raise with very high morals. Yet, I became a state ward who did not have any regard for my future. 

Despite the best attempts by my parents, I had serious behavior and mood disturbances throughout junior high and high school. After trying every intervention possible, I had come to a place of potential legal trouble and/or serious physical injury. By 10th grade, there was nothing anyone could do to stop me from "going 100 miles per hour towards a concrete wall," as my mother would say. She mostly likely suffered the most because she could not save me from myself.

I wasn't a drug user, I wasn't a thief, and I wasn't promiscuous (although, all those rumors followed me throughout high school). I was angry and very defiant; it sounds so simple and easy to handle, but it certainly was not for those that tried to help me. I couldn't control my rage and anyone was a potential victim of a blow-up or a fight. I lived for picking fights during those days for the slightest offense, even if I knew that I wasn't going to "win." With what we as a society now know, one could say that I was a bully. It can also be argued that I was teenager with long-standing post-traumatic stress, anxiety, and clinical depression. Anger and depression was all that I felt for many years; the only way that I knew how to cope with my "diagnoses" was to lash out with vicious verbal and physical attacks.

I can never apologize enough to the people who I unjustly hurt.

As a teacher, I have seen children who truly know what trauma and suffering is in their young lives. While most parents seem to do the best that they can, there are always those that abuse and/or neglect the needs of their children. 

My school has many problems, but the lack of security at home and the amplified rate of "fight or flight" is a major factor. In fact, school serves as a safe haven for many kids. 

The fact is that our schools are not going to have great change until the community rallies together to bring about change in our neighborhoods.

Sadly, the socioeconomic struggles have bled over to the schools. The two schools in this video are within walking distance from another. It was said that the "lesser school" mentioned was said to be transformed into a similiar school to the "nicer one." There have been changes that have occured within our district since that was stated and I am holding faith that all students will recieve a "fair and equitable" education regardless of any behavioral or socioeconomical struggles.


Until Next Time,

LEARN LOUDLY

And Then Life Makes a Full Circle

I often refer to the teenage version of myself as a hooligan. I was certainly not the worst of the worst, but I caused a great deal of heartbreak and havoc. Due to a combination of chemical imbalances and childhood traumas mixed with teenage hormones and an inability to express the hurt and anger that I had carried for years, I was a one-girl team of destruction.

This is not a blog about casting blame on anyone, so don’t jump to the conclusion that I may reveal some big answer about why I was so out-of-control. I can’t, and if I could, what purpose would it serve? The most simple and most accountable answer that I can give is that I had pain, and for many years I handled hurt through displays of anger and aggression.

It was the 1990s and I was diagnosed with a myriad of disorders, some of which are no longer recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). There was no place for me and my behavior was becoming increasingly dangerous to myself and others, so I was placed in a variety of residential group homes.

Change in Philosophy

 

I believe in the power of education and the cliché that knowledge is power. A strong education and a good work ethic can help anyone change their situation. When you are a teen, you have a choice to start building the life that you want to have regardless of the life that you were given at birth. Literature was my path, my salvation, my escape, and eventually, my career.

During my fourth year of teaching, I met R. I have had many students who were wards of the state, so when I found out that she was in a group home, I gave her the same speech that I give all the kids in that situation. It is essential, “I have survived the group home circuit. You can make something positive of your life if you chose to do so. I will have high expectations for you during your time here, because that is my teaching style, but if you need additional resources, please let me know.” Other than that and providing occasional supplies, I had not gotten involved in their cases.  

R and I looked similar, had similar literacy (high) and math (low) scores, and a similar sense of humor. I gave her my speech and was going to leave it at that, but she wrote me a letter detailing her life experience so far. She had no one. I wrote back a list of survival rules/pep talk quotes. It was pretty cheesy stuff like, “Sometimes you will feel like you can’t go any further, but you must always put one foot in front of the other and eventually, you will look back and the struggles will be behind you.” I really thought that I was sharing seriously sage advice at the time.

R’s story was so outrageous that I started to suspect that she was manipulating me for some reason. I called her case worker and discovered that the most disturbing things that this young lady had written were true and that she was, indeed, in need of someone to care about her well-being. I decided to be her mentor.

I believe that God put that child in my life. I wanted to stop her road of destruction and hurt. I wanted to help her realize that she was just as valuable as every other person breathing air and that she had every reason to love herself. Maybe I was trying to save myself or right the wrongs of my personal history through sharing my experience as a teen with someone else. I don’t know, but as time goes on, it is reaffirmed that R was put in my life for a purpose. I hope that I am serving a purpose in her life, but that is not my story to tell.

I failed miserably at being a mentor. I could not simply give her advice that she would follow; I could not fathom why she would not accept what I said and just do what I suggested. For a long time, I was temporary to her.  Naturally, being failed by everyone else in her life, she looked at me as another person who was going to let her down and make her feel inadequate. I understood it, but I couldn't stop it.

Eventually, she left my town for another placement. 

I maintained contact with her caseworker and would hear from R every few months. For awhile, she stabilized and was thriving in a new foster home. Still, like most teenagers and like all children who have suffered in life, she started to push boundaries, made some mistakes, and had to leave the foster home for a group home.

This particular group home was the last one that I was in as a teen. It was 1996 and I was 17. I did not give a single damn about working any aspect of the therapy and was simply buying my time. After six months, the program informed my parents that I was not going to be successful in the program. I left there and didn’t really look back too often.

I wasn’t successful there at all, but I did learn a lot about myself and there were words that rang in my ears years later from three very dedicated and hardworking professionals there (H, A, and E). The first time that I drove to this facility to pick up R for a visit, I became very saddened and angered. I have cried every time that I have dropped her off at the facility. I have cried for her and her lack of options right now and I have cried for my younger self.

I am not nearly as glamorous as Brittney when I cry and drive

I finally understood tonight.

R has become a part of our family over the course of our journey. She has made some mistakes along the way, but we have watched her struggle, grow, and change. We see the good in her and believe that she can succeed. She still cannot see that in herself, aside from moments of sheer defiance to prove all the people who didn’t believe in her ability. Because she has been systematically failed her whole life, it is hard for her to trust that people will be there for her no matter what. Sometimes, she pushes people away as a method of self-preservation. You know, the whole, “I will hurt you before you hurt me” bit.

Tonight was one of those nights. She felt inadequate and frustrated. She was tired of living in a group home instead of a real home. She wanted normal teenage freedom and felt like all of her work has been fruitless.

Again, I understood all of her points.

She started to tell me that she didn’t want to go on passes anymore because she didn’t want to let me down and she didn’t want her counselor to say that she was co-dependent on anyone. She eventually calmed down as I listened and I explained that it wasn’t necessary for her to push because after all this time, I was not going to bail.

And then I said, “If you think I’m giving up on you, you’re crazy.”

There it was. 

My dark shadow of unresolved lingerings that will never be answered and healed.

During my stay at this same group home almost twenty years ago, my biological father sent me a letter. I had not heard much from him during my time in group homes. In fact, the last time that I had seen him, I had severed our relationship in an attempt to gain a solution that I thought would fix all of my hurt.

My parents had me when they were very young and they divorced before my first memory. My father was immature and emotionally distant, but there were things that I look back on in life that tell me that he loved me. There are songs, places, and memories of things like dancing on his feet that bring tears to my eyes. In fact, the best summer of my life was spent with him in Savannah, GA. He was a park ranger at Fort Pulaski, and on his days off we would go to Tybee Island and play at the beach.

Things change.

My mother, step-father (whom I typically refer to as Daddy), and I moved 8 hours away. I began to convert from a tomboy to a girlie-girl and this was completely alien to my dirt-digging  (archaeologist) father. His way of handling all things uncomfortable was to shut-down, cut-down, or make a joke. We were losing the frayed strings that held us together. He also married my step-mother, who hates me to this day (to her credit, I was such a terror to her from 12-15 years old during a total of three visitations that she has never been able to recovered).

This picture is for satire only. My step-mother is a blonde. 

On a side note, his daughter is more than a sister. She is one of my best friends. We developed a secret relationship over six years ago because she was warned by her mother about me. I never turned my sister into a devil-worshipper nor did I try to sacrifice her to the underlords. Plus, she is an adult now so we don’t have to hide the fact that we have talked three to five times a week since she was 15.

Nature wins over Nurture 

My father and I speak once or twice a year. When he does call, he says, “Jaimie, this is your father.” His formality is so reminiscent of Darth Vader that it is funny, but otherwise, it hurts. When I was a struggling teen, I didn’t want to leave my mother, but a part of me wanted my father to save me. He probably couldn’t have because many people tried and no one could stop me from destroying myself except for me. I spent many years in the confinements of whatever facility that I was in thinking that he was going to come “rescue” me.

I understand why he didn’t. I was uncontrollable and he had small children at the time to protect; my mom was in that same boat. Having a small child of my own made me understand how precious those early years are and how vital it is to protect them from hurt, abuse, and confusion. This was something that I didn’t understand until I became a parent myself.

He wrote me once. The letter came during my stay at R’s current placement. I remember two things: he told me that as I get older, more doors closed and he told me to listen to “Just Wait” by Blues Travelers.

Without a second thought, I quoted a line from that song to R tonight.

I have rarely listened to it over the years because I argued with it (or rather argued with my father’s intent on sending it). At the time, the lyrics offended and hurt me. “If you think I’ve given up on you, you’re crazy. If you think I don’t love you, then you’re just wrong, “ is sung softly in the song. I would hear those lines and think, “Really? Why didn’t you come get me? You haven’t loved me in years.” And so the negative thoughts would roll.

I have softened quite a bit towards my father since the passing of my grandmother, our only real connection during my adult life. Yet, we don’t have a relationship. I forgave him years ago for not “saving” me or making me feel loved enough to counteract the burdens that I had carried.

But, tonight, I understood him differently than before. It is one of the hardest things to watch someone you love start to self-destruct and not be able to do anything to save them other than say, “eventually you will stop hurting yourself.”

There are no real answers in life and one thing that my father has always said is, “Your mother and I did the best we could with what we had at the time.” I am doing just that with R – trying the best I can with what I have.

So, I sit here with an ache in my heart for the hurt and helplessness that parents (my father, my mom, and my daddy) felt. I ache in my heart with a new-found empathy that I have for their situation so many years ago. Not being able to help someone that you so desperately want to reach is devastating. 

But most of all, I ache in my heart for R because she has yet to understand all the beautiful things that can come from an ugly life.

So, like my father, all I can think to do at this point is to write and tell her to, “Just Wait.”

Until next time,

LIVE LOUDLY!!!

Out of Context: A 24 Day Journey: 24 inches Closer

You have to keep reading to see all the before and after pictures. 

I share my struggles with my weight and body image in the hopes that it helps someone somewhere. It isn't always easy to be so transparent and to put personal things about myself in print, but I am a teacher by trade and our nature is to help people.

This was during my Wanna-be Barbie phase that I discuss in
How Blondes Made Me Fat

            When I physically looked my best, I was extremely unhealthy. My size was not earned through proper nutrition, exercise, and dedication. I loved junk and I hated exercise and in reality, I did not like myself.

            As I matured, I thought that I had overcome being so self-destructive. I didn’t. I just change my modus operandi (method of operation). I was still consuming processed junk and was still leading a very sedentary life. Although I thought that I was doing less harm to myself, I was becoming more and more unhealthy. With a Body Mass Index (BMI) of 38.4, I was at risk for an array of things that I was already genetically predisposed to having, specifically diabetes and heart disease.

            From 2001 to 2014, I tried a plethora of diets and fads. The specific ones are not important because the issue was me and my relationship with my food and my health. Most of the things that I tried had made me feel sluggish or jittery. I found ways to cheat around the restrictions or guidelines of other ones.

            The only “diet” that had worked in all those years was the dreaded “Divorce Diet.” I lost 47 lbs. In 2009 while going through my divorce and I can assure you that the weight loss from that was not healthy at all. Anyone who has been through a divorce knows the illness that comes with that much of a life change. I was deteriorating physically, as well as mentally.

            Fast forward to six months post-divorce and I was right back to my BMI of 38.4.

            I had fallen in love with someone who truly loved who I was and thought that I was beautiful no matter what size I was, what I wore, or how my make-up looked. He loved my heart. Yet, I looked at myself and was disgusted. I was uncomfortable and ashamed.

The picture that hurt me. 

            My middle sister got married in September of 2013. It was this picture that made me decide that something was going to have to change. I had honestly believed that I looked cute that day; the pictures showed otherwise. My features were getting lost to the roundness of my face!!!!

            In January of this year, a hot, new gym was opening down the road. When I went to cancel an existing membership, the rep said, “Oh! I see it has been 453 days since you last came to the gym and it doesn’t look like you came but a couple of times during your three years as a member. How is this new gym going to change your desire to get fit?” I hated that I couldn’t hide the red that was rising from my neck to my cheeks and tears rolled down my face as I cancelled the membership. He actively tried to apologize and explain that it was a mentality and not a station. I wasn’t hearing it! Obviously, it was the place, right?

            I started the hot, new gym with full gusto. Yet, I wasn’t focusing on myself. I was focusing on the thin girl who looked adorable in her workout clothes and the woman that was much larger than me, but was actually running on the treadmill. I tucked my tail and cancelled my membership because I chose to compare myself to others, not knowing their journey, instead of giving myself the gift of health.

Excuses I found at the gym included a jealousy and a feeling of inferiority of women shaped like this. 

            In February, I was told that my blood pressure was getting dangerously high and that I needed to make drastic changes or I was going to have to start taking medicine. My blood sugar was also higher than it should be for the first time in my life. Knowing that my grandmother died of heart disease at the age of 64, I got scared. I looked at my 7 year old son and thought, “What am I teaching him?”

            I went back to the old gym. The same guy was there and he was so eager to talk to me and explain himself once again. I simply nodded, but I knew that this time was going to be different because that doctor’s warning and those numbers were what I saw now in place of the thin young lady in spandex and the bigger person running.

            I began consuming less junk and giving way to the gym. I couldn’t do much at first and sometimes I would cry in the parking lot because I felt like such a failure. On days that I couldn’t emotionally face the gym, I went for walks in the park with my son instead. I just knew that I had to keep moving.

What I didn’t know was that all of the diet cokes and the processed foods that I thought were acceptable were still causing me troubles. I had managed to lose just about weight and throw off my BMI down to 33.8, but it wasn’t enough to begin lifting the blood pressure and blood sugar problems. Plus, my weight had plateaued. I was stuck and I needed to do something different.

            At the same time that I was getting annoyed with all my friends for posting about weight-loss on social media, I was researching every item they were discussing. I had to find an answer. A good friend of mine had found a product that she said was changing her life. “Isn’t that what they always say?” is what I thought.

            Two days later, a science instructor at my school spoke to me about the same matter. She even said the same thing, but she had a slightly more scientific perspective on it. I looked at her and said, “There is no way that I can live with coffee and cokes for over a 24 hour period.” She simply articulated, “Yes, you can.”

            I researched the information on my own and decided to try this one last thing before talking to my doctor about weight-loss surgery, which I did qualify for at the time. I thought that it would be better to invest in myself a little bit before taking out a loan for surgery.

            IT WAS THE BEST DECISION THAT I EVER MADE FOR MYSELF!!!!

24 Day Challenge Kit

            I started Advocare on May 1, 2014. My two friends were not lying or seeking personal gain when they shared that Advocare had changed their lives. In four days, I began to feel better. It is difficult to explain, but I physically felt a calmness in body, nevertheless I had energy. I had no jitters and no periods of being sluggish. That was definitely a first.

            The difference was that I wasn’t simply on some diet plan. I was on the path to a lifestyle change. I was discovering how to feed my body the nutrients that it needed and breaking away from the processed and carbonated junk that had ruined my self-confidence and body for so long. I liked how I felt and that was plenty for me. I couldn’t possibly imagine the changes that were waiting for me 20 days down the road.

This was my little guy's first belt testing a few years ago. He still loves it and he motivates me. 

            About a week after starting Advocare, my 7 year old said, “Mommy, when are we going to stop eating healthy? I want to start having McDonald’s all the time again.” I had not put my son on a diet, then don’t imagine that. However, because I was cooking for myself, I started to incorporate “clean eating” at the family table. My heart immediately dropped. I had done a great disservice to my child. My son is slim because he is very active (like all boys are at all times) and he takes Taekwondo. Yet, I had allowed him to indulge on fast food and processed to the point that it was all he wanted. My lesson on Day 7 was that it was my job to model proper nutrition and exercise for my son. I was further motivated.

            Let’s take a time out to talk numbers because that is what everyone really wants to know.

	Day 1	Day 10	Difference	Day 24	Total Difference
Weight	216 pounds	208 pounds	-8 pounds	202 pounds	-14 pounds
Neck	15 inches	14.5 inches	-.5	14 inches	-1 inches
Chest	48 inches	45.5 inches	-2.5	44 inches	-4 inches
Bra Size	42DDD	N/A	N/A	38DD	N/A
Waist	42 inches	37 inches	-2	35 inches	-7 inches
Hips	49 inches	47 inches	-2	45 inches	-2 inches
R Thigh	28.5 inches	27 inches	-1.5	24.5 inches	-4 inches
L Thigh	28 inches	27 inches	-1	24 inches	-4 inches
R Arm	15 inches	14 inches	-1	13 inches	-1 inches
L Arm	15.5 inches	14 inches	-1.5	13.75 inches	-1.25 inches
Total Lost					-24.25 Inches

                I have gone from a 20W to something smaller than a 16W (I wear dresses all the time now because I don’t want to buy new dress pants until I absolutely have to for the next school year). I am still a plus-size woman and I still have a couple of rolls from my 4^th Trimester body (Okay, my unhealthy eating body). I did notice little things on the latter part of my 24 Day Challenge: my coworkers (and students) were commenting on my noticeable change in shape and energy, sitting in the swing at the playground was more comfortable, and I could wrap a regular size towel around my whole body for the first time in 15 years.

Advocare was not about achieving a miracle and becoming the Barbie that I used to crave being; it was about changing my life and becoming healthy. I will continue this journey for the rest of my life, but the difference is that I now have support and guidance from fellow Advocare Advocates and the knowledge to fuel my body with what it needs. Most importantly, I have the ability to teach my son a way to love himself through nurturing his heart, mind, and body. 

Until next time, LIVE LOUDLY!!!! 

P.S. I still have the awesome Dr. Who shirt, but I have to wear a tank top under it now because it hangs on me so differently now. 

Out of Context: How Being Fat Made Me a Better Friend

Fat. People do not like that word. They don’t wish to be called fat and they don’t like to hear others refer to themselves as fat. That is my word of choice. I could state that I am morbidly obese, which based on doctor’s measurements, I am. That just sounds like the creeping death and essentially it is. I could say that I am fluffy which has a bit of Southern charm. Still, that isn't an accurate description. Fluffy implies that my obesity is comparable to a kitten.

It’s not.

The first time that clothes at The Limited no longer fit me, I cried. When my friend suggested that we walk across the mall to Lane Bryant, I argued, but went out of desperation for clothes that fit. She and the sales lady were very supportive and picked out several nice things for me to try on that day. I wept in the fitting room for an hour like a baby.

I had been in full denial of what depression and binge-eating had done to me physically.

I tried to accentuate my figure, but I looked more like a stuffed sausage than a statuesque bombshell. In hindsight, it was embarrassing. After that, I hid behind clothes that were very somber with little strain. That turned to letting myself go completely because what was the purpose? I felt like I was just trying to sell a rag doll as a porcelain rarity.

I noticed that people treated me differently as time went passed.

After crossing the threshold of a plus-size woman, any attempt to buy clothing for my younger and smaller framed sisters was immediately met with a saleswoman who would say, “Clothing for full-figured women are over there.” At first, I lashed out and let them have it like I was Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman and they had just lost some great commission. Realizing that places like Dillard’s didn't make commission, I eventually started to sulk away instead of stating my purpose.

I have hidden behind these smaller beauties for years in pictures. 

I eventually began to accept that I was a big girl. I dealt with it through self-deprecating jokes and comments about how I was a real woman. I was no more a real woman than any other woman, but it was how I masked the shame of walking in my skin.

Going out with my husband presented problems as well. On three occasions, as I was much larger than The Ex Husband and The New Husband, waitresses have made flirtatious passes towards whom I was with at dinner. I know that some waitresses are a bit flirty with the man because they assume they will get a bigger tip. This is not what I am talking about in regards to the three incidences. Nope. These were outright attempts to get dates. Once I flashed my wedding ring (okay, I made a scene and cussed the girl out the first time it happened), the waitress became very sheepish. One even said, “I didn't realize that you were together.” The prevailing attitude appeared to be that a thinner guy must be with a larger woman for fetish reasons or for pity; it did not seem to occur to some that I could be loved.

I had been called many names in my life. I had even been called fat. However, when you become a teacher of teenagers, everything about your outward appearance, expressions, and mannerism can easily be turned into an insult. It isn't because teenagers are awful people who want to hurt everyone on a deeply personal level; it is that they have raging hormones and a lack of control that turns their fits of anger full into pure vitriol. Fat, ugly, and dumb seem to be the favorite adjectives to add an unflattering name when a teenager is triggered.

Teachers, avoiding this facial expression and the use of a pointer finger while explaining instructions that were plainly listed will save you from triggering a teenage tantrum. 

Yet, adults have called me worse with the same adjective, most recently a neighbor who happens to be much larger than I am.  People like my neighbor are just hateful, but some of the best meant comments hit the proverbial gut even harder. People would randomly say things to me like, “You have such a pretty face. You should try to be a plus-size model.” Plus-size models are actually the size of the average American woman and I was way larger than that.

If these models are considered Plus Size, then I must be Super-Sized.

I also suffered years of unsolicited dieting advice. I have even had co-workers who would make commentary on what I was eating. During a meeting a couple of years ago, one of my co-workers said, “That salad would be healthy if you didn't have cheese in it.” Maybe so, but I was so embarrassed and hurt. Meanwhile, the hypocrisy was that several of my co-workers were using fad products or starving themselves while “helping” me.

At an art show once, I noticed that a lady kept staring at me. It was a very uncomfortable stare and I could feel that this person was full of rage. When she approached me, she said, “Do you remember me?” I did not and this turned her rage into full wrath. She said, “You were the cruelest person that I ever met and you made fun of my every day in junior high and you don’t even remember me?” She was very beautiful, articulate, and fit; she shredded every ounce of dignity that I had left.

Having lost the things that allowed me to be a wannabe Barbie, I had to reevaluate who I was and who I had been in life. I had not been kind to others. I could easily find someone’s weakness or insecurity and I would use it to tear them down to somehow make myself feel better. As I mentioned in How Blondes Made Me Fat, I had no love for myself. It is easy to see and hard to accept.

Yet, this is when I stopped suppressing the things about myself that were truly valuable and could not be built from plastic. I started to allow myself to stop acting like I was a bimbo. 

I actually began to engage in intellectual conversations and to explore my options in life. Deep down, I had wanted to be an educator since I was in 2^nd grade. 

I mean it when I say that teaching is my dream job. I love it!

I was also a closet geek lover. I was not necessarily a full-blown fan girl, but I loved Sci-Fi and Fantasy. I only got to experience that through the guys in my life when I was on Mission Barbie (Fun Loud Fact: Every serious relationship that I have ever had has required frequent trips to the comic book store). I was also very serious and tried my hardest to not be goofy. In reality, I am an extremely goofy and playful soul. It wasn't until I became fat, that I allowed myself to embrace these things about myself.

It is rumored that The Honey Island Swamp Monster is my real father.

It did not bode well with me when I realized that I was a D.U.F.F. (Designated Ugly Fat Friend) that was used to enhance the attractiveness of an already beautiful friend. I became a walking character foil. Because my self-hatred was so extreme, I reverted back to using my aggressive wit and loud mouth as an endeavor to maintain value with a group of toxic people. I was proud to be “The Enforcer.” I was not permitted to be vulnerable, frail, or nice outwardly because it wasn't what the other Barbie wannabes wanted from me as I approached 250 pounds.

After a string of events that demonstrated that I had allowed my feelings of worthlessness control my life, I had to walk away from it all. I left my first marriage, as well as the other Barbie wannabes.

When you drop the things that superficial people want to use you for, you become very solitary.

This lead me to selecting actions that I needed to take in my life; I allowed myself to be loved for the things that could not be picked up in a mirror. I grew closer to my family than I had been in years. I married a man that has loved me equally regardless of my size because the things that he loves about me cannot be weighed or measured. I learned how to start loving myself because I had a child who needed me to be whole in order to be the best mom that he could have.

I hide behind him in pictures, too. He loves me all the same. 

I also became more mindful of how I talked to others who did not look like society suggested they should. I made eye contact, I made conversation, I made sincere compliments, and I made real connections with real people. Becoming fat should have been the most difficult thing for me, but the most difficult thing was actually confronting the cruel and fake person that I used to be. Becoming fat did to me was give me perspective and an acceptance of those who are different than mainstream society. In fact, I embrace different now.

A true friend is always willing to make a fool of themselves with you. 

As I am working to develop healthy eating and exercising habits, I cling to my geeky, silly, and idiot-savant (I still have some airhead moments, but they are never intentional). I am on my path of losing an excess of 80 lbs. that came from a self-hatred, but gave me a love of life and people. Part of that love of life is the excitement of giving that little boy who used to love to cuddle with his “fluffy” mommy, a mommy who can run wild with him on great imaginary adventures. 

He requires an active mom. Photo courtesy of one my sisters. 

Most importantly, being fat forced me to stop being a bully because I learned what it felt like to be treated sub-par. I do not want to raise a child to make people feel that way, so it is my job to teach him by always striving to do better. 

My next weight-related entry will be – The Gym Verse: “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.”

Until next time, BE LOUDER THAN MOST!!!!