Bruises

"Your uniform looks really bad from the back."--high school cheerleading coach.

"Are you a camper or a counselor?"--fellow 6th grade camper.

"Hey Chubbo--didn't you get enough food at lunch?"--sign in my high school locker accompanied by a bag of Oreo cookies.

"Mom, can you come get me? My pants just split."--me calling from the bathroom of the skating rink.

"Chubbo! Chubbo! Chubbo!"--former friends banging on the tables in the lunchroom as I arrived.

"You have such a pretty face."--Everyone ever who wanted to get the rest of me pretty.

"You only lost 4 pounds this week. I'm disappointed."--weight loss adviser who promoted eating only plain chicken, protein shakes and bran wafers, taking me from a size 16 to an 8 in one summer.

"Wow--we make those paper gowns big, but I guess we don't make them that big!"--first physician I visited after I moved to Washington (a female).

Making this decision to take my health and future seriously has uncovered some very old wounds. Just yesterday, thinking about them brought on uncontrollable tears. Those tears were the first vulnerability I have allowed on the subject of my weight in a very long time. Until now, I hadn't recognized that my refusal to succumb to a successful weight-loss strategy has everything to do with not wanting my torturers to win.

I have spent my entire adulthood trying to prove that I am a smart, strategic, capable leader who can accomplish anything. I have had the opportunity to work with political and cultural icons on some of the most high-profile campaigns in the country. I became a school board member and chair. I graduated with a Masters of Public Administration in my early 40s while working a full-time job, being a wife and mother, and serving on the school board.

I accomplished all of that as Fatniss. Ha! Ha! Ha! Take that bullies! I WILL NOT lose weight just because you say I should!

These bruises are real, and they are just now beginning to fade. I have been giving every other critical person in my life more power than I have given myself. Yet, none of them are here now cheering me on.

Over a lifetime of paying lip service to getting healthy, I have amassed an arsenal of really good tools to be successful on this quest. I know how to eat. I know how to exercise. That has never been enough. The armor of bruises has always kept me from actually making it work.

Today, I'm finally letting the bruises go. My hope is that writing them down gets them off of my mind and into the past where they belong. I also want these words to get the attention of those who think that the Fatnisses of the world brought on their own fate and therefore deserve criticism, teasing or even unsolicited advice. I promise you, it doesn't make them comply. In fact, it makes them stronger.