Window to winning at weight loss: a 3.5 mile run and a walk with a friend last night, good listening to my hunger and just skipped lunch because I didn’t feel hungry, ate on plan including the most delicious piece of French toast on the planet on a Tuesday, prayed, journaled, talked about music, cried at an Indian film, made dinner, did laundry, hung out with Marci, high five high five high five.
I am the third of four children. I have three brothers. I would describe our household as all men with two women living there. Beyond the six of us, were also the occasional college basketball player or two, as well as an exchange student here and there, and perhaps a basketball coach or scout passing through. It was a busy, full household with rare occasions of it just being our family only. My parents are black belt ninja level “welcoming the stranger” hospitality-minded Christian souls.
Also I’m an Enneagram 4. Our cryptonite weakness is envy and comparison. It will steal our joy and make us feel like garbage. I’ve successfully achieved both states over and over again. Our fundamental fear is that there is something inherently wrong with us. We came out of the factory already broken and so the shame monster is strong. Very strong. A comparison/envy/shame sandwich is on the menu year round and, if you don’t know that, you make it real easy to get caught in its snare over and over again. And I have also successfully done that for most of the time.
As the only girl, then, in a household of boys, trying to figure shit out and ill-equipped, my girl-ness seemed to be a real problem. It was never a “Daddy’s Little Princess” type deal at our house. My bad moods were upsetting, my choice of clothes were a problem (go right back upstairs and change right this minute), my hair was unruly so it was cut nice and short, food was an issue for me but I wasn’t sure if it was a problem for the boys. The boys were naturally thin, the boys were athletes, the boys were hungry so they ate. No one really knew what to do with me and I didn’t know what to do with me. Be a boy? That’s what I knew the best and what I saw everyone else doing. I was connecting the dots that I was the odd (wo)man out and so I was trying to figure out how to fix the other-ness of my gender. My appearance seemed to always be a problem and my attitude seemed to always be a problem and, since I have no idea what’s real and what’s fiction about my life, I guess that’s all there is to say. The day I got my period after tennis lessons the summer before my 8th grade year I layed on the floor of my bedroom and cried for hours and hours and hours by myself just knowing it was the death blow, like, “See? You thought you could pretend you were like the others but you’re not. You’re a factory defect.” Oh so much drama. So. many feelings in a place where feelings were not on the list of approved activities.
Coming of age is not easy. Trying to understand the rules of life and ways to be a part of the group can be tricky. Open communication wasn’t really in style in the 80s and 90s and when life is busy with jobs and kids and church and volunteering and away games, and houseguests, a kid is left to come up with a roadmap with whatever they can figure out. Mine seemed to be about appearance, behavior and food, getting attention in whatever kid ways seemed available to me. The adult me is different than the child me. I thought I could just burn child me up in a fire and never have to look at her again, but I think the opposite is true. I think I need to sit down with her and let her speak so she get some shit off her chest and not interrogate her about dates and times and prove she’s wrong. Just let her get a chance to be heard and be seen and tell her it’s gonna be OK. Then, maybe the sandwich can just be a sandwich again and she can wear whatever she wants to.