Standing Up to the Plate

I take a break from my non-posting in this blog to….blog!

I’ve been off work this week.   It should have been a more positive experience than it has been, but because I let food (or my desire for it) dictate how I feel, it’s been a little on the lonely side.    Even though it has been days that the Lord made, they have been a little gray and overcast, and my mood became the same way. 

Eating didn’t help…it made things worse.   Shopping didn’t help…I don’t normally spend money I don’t have, so I didn’t buy anything.   Calling a friend didn’t help…not everyone is off this week.   

So, I prayed.   

I had a good long conversation with God, and He reminded me that I’m a princess, a daughter of the Most High God, and not a slave imprisoned by the cares of this world.    I was feeling pretty misplaced…not lost, but misplaced…and as I left my prayer closet, I was feeling a little better.

I went to see my mother, who’s been feeling rather poorly these last few days, and I shared with her my confusion, disappointment, and feelings of defeat over my food obsession.  (That’s a nice way to treat my ailing mother, isn’t it?)   She talked to me about independence…that is, not living my life with a dependency on my urges to eat, but to live independent of those desires of the flesh, and to live in dependency on God.    She also reminded me that I do have a choice, sympathized with me that I felt my problems were much deeper than just a choice, and reminded me again that I need to practice self-control.  

She then said something else profound…we really don’t have much more time to get the word out to a dying and lost world.   There is freedom.   God said so, that settles it.    She told me that as long as I was living under bondage like I am, how would I be going about the Father’s business?   He has a work for me to do, but I’m so wrapped up in my obsession, that I only....obsess.

As I was leaving, she said,

“It’s time for you to stand up to the plate!”  

And she didn’t just mean for me to get ready to bat the ball out of the ballpark.   It’s time for me to stand up to the plate and say, “No!” every now and again.   Exhibit some self-control.  Gain some independence.   Be about my Father’s business. 

Thanks, Mom.

How Did I Get Here Part 1-A: Clarification

My first year experience with school was a nightmare.    My teacher was never nice to me, and I truly do not know if it was because I was tall and skinny with cat-eyed glasses, or if I was bratty.   If she treated anyone else as badly, I never noticed it.   Things she did to me included: 

When I wrote my spelling words backwards on a test, instead of explaining to me what I had done, she sent me to the principal’s office, who also didn’t try to help me.   He told me that if I did that again, I was going to get a paddling.   I don’t know of any six year old little girls who wouldn’t be very afraid.  She also gave me a 0 on the test, with no suggestion of being able to make it up.  (To complete this story, my teacher then told her co-workers about it, one of whom knew my mom, and that lady told Mom what had happened.   They thought it was funny, that I had written my words backwards.   They didn’t know that I had been terrorized about it.   Mom asked me about it later than night, and I lied because I was afraid about this “bad, bad” thing I had done.  Lying was my mom’s biggest no-no.   To top off my lovely day, I got a spanking for lying.)

When my table-mate (and I still remember her name) dropped her pencil and broke the lead, for some reason, she told the teacher that I dropped it.   I had no idea what was transpiring.  I was doing what I was supposed to be doing.   She came up behind me, and before I knew she was there, she yanked me up by my arm and paddled me in front of everyone.  I had no clue why, until she was finished, and she told me that would "teach me to break pencil leads."   Seriously.   Even if I had broken the pencil lead, it only needed to be sharpened.    As I was typing this, my heart was grieved for the little girl that I was.

When a boy threw up near my seat, she wouldn’t let me get up and move.   As I was gagging, and she made me sit there.   Yeah, too gross to read, yes?

I didn’t tell my parents what was going on at school because if I got in trouble at school, I got in trouble at home.   I do not believe my parents would have stood for what was going on, but how does a six year old know that?

The name calling was from my brothers.    Typical big brother bully stuff.   

The unpleasant meals were because I was such a picky child, but I was still expected to eat what was put before me.   That’s the way things used to be.   My parents were raised by parents living in the Great Depression.   You didn’t waste food.   I understand that now, I didn’t then.

Any or all of the above may or may not have contributed to my feelings of inadequacy.   In my earliest years, I don’t believe I had reached “self-loathing” yet.    I had just accepted the fact that I was liked less than others, for whatever reasons.   I remember asking my sister when we were small children, very matter-of-factly, why our grandparents didn’t like us as much as they did the other grandchildren.    I remember her being a little surprised, because she had never felt that way, and she told me they didn’t love us any less.  I didn’t believe her, and it’s a feeling I carried into adulthood.

When I was younger, I felt unloveable because of something I couldn’t change:   The way I looked.    I was bigger than the other children, both in height and weight.  I’m sure it affected the way I acted.

As I grew, the feelings grew.   When other kids starting catching up to me size-wise, the feelings of inadequacy persisted.   By that time, a food obsession was in full force, and my self-loathing was in part due to a fluctuating size I didn’t want to be, and the obsession I seemingly couldn’t control.    By the time I reached 12 or 13, possibly younger, I had a chip on my shoulder.   I wore the chip in the form of rebellion and made lots of wrong and bad choices that only added to my feelings of worthlessness.    

At this point in my story, it is important to again stress that I am not as pitiful as all this sounds.   I have a great family, and I am blessed beyond words.  

How Did I Get Here? Part 1

Disclaimer (of sorts):   If you are not one to like long, detailed, TMI type entries, you may want to skip my next few.  I’m working out a few issues, living out loud, sharing too much…sorting out my thoughts.      

I’ve had weight/food issues for as long as I can remember.   I must have known something wasn’t right…not normal…with me, even as a small child.    These issues didn’t just stop with food or weight, obsession took over and became part of my personality, like a bitter root, choking out the person I should have been.  Before I was in the first grade, I had accepted the thought that I wasn’t liked by others…perhaps it was because of adolescent name-calling, an abusive first-grade teacher, unpleasant meal times…whatever the reason, the battle for my happiness, my success, my very soul, was raging even then. 

In elementary school, I struggled with both food obsession and with liking myself.  If I didn’t like me, I felt I could rest assured that no one else did either.   Even then, I felt inferior, worthless, unliked, and alone.  By the time I was in the sixth grade, I was a little pudgy and that added greatly to my pain, and just strengthened my belief that I was inferior.  In the eighth grade, I dropped a little weight, but my mind still could not separate the feelings of obsession inside with how I looked on the outside.   More significant than that:  my mind couldn’t grasp that my weight didn’t define me.   I wasn’t fat.   But I wasn’t skinny, meaning I wasn’t as thin as some of the other girls; plus, I was taller than most, and because of that, I felt so conspicuous.   Bigger = bad.   This is an issue I struggle with to this day.  

When I was 15, my body wasn’t fat.   My mind was!  Not that I had a fat head, mind you, it’s just that my thinking was completely twisted.   Twisted thinking will make you believe odd things, and start to obsess.   Obsession will lie to you and make you think you can’t change. 

 

This is a picture of me when I was 15.

I only post these pictures to show that I looked normal.

The battle was internal.  (Sorry about the quality.)

And…there are people in this world who do not like me (or someone like me), and choose to never get to know me, because of my weight.   That’s their problem.   Right now, I’m talking about ME!   However, stating the fact that there are folks who don’t like me because of how I look makes me also admit that I do not pursue relationships…fear of rejection, perhaps.   Most likely, though, it’s because of my own issues I have about myself.   I am not a person who needs a lot of friends, though, and I am not as pitiful as I am sounding in this historical entry.

When I graduated from High School, I still wasn’t fat.   I was bigger than I wanted to be; therefore, again, I couldn’t separate (in my own mind) how I looked from who I actually was.   God had a different plan for my life, but obsession made me feel so inferior that I looked for other ways to mask the pain of not liking myself.   The life I chose was a lot more heartbreaking than it had to have been.

Senior Picture

By the time I was in my mid 20’s, I was gaining and losing 30-50 pounds semi-regularly, only I never quite lost everything that I regained, and in the midst of my yo-yoing, I was growing.   The more I grew, the further into the pit I slid.   The pit has a name:  Hopeless, Despair and Discouragement.   It’s a place I’ve called home most of my adult life.

28 years old...

Deeply entrenched in the throes of self loathing.

No Survivor am I

This morning, I really felt like giving up.    “Giving up” doesn’t just include eating all day, every day.   It means not going anywhere…avoiding folks…backing out of going to a double family reunion in Gatlinburg.    I’m already in the pit, I wanted to slide wayyyy back in the lowest crevice and hole up in hopelessness, discouragement and despair for good.

Instead, I called Mom and she prayed for me.   I prayed for myself.  

I read David’s words:   I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the lord in the land of the living.   Wait on the LORD, be of good courage, and he will strengthen your heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.   (Ps 27)

And

I waited patiently for the LORD, and He inclined to me, and heard my cry.   He also brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my steps.    Be pleased, O LORD to deliver me, make haste to help me.    (Ps 40)

I reread a poem I wrote in 2009:

No Survivor Am I

My worth isn’t measured by my current condition,

Opinions of others, or my present position.

Though my foot may slip, I am not incomplete,

My failures are never my final defeat.

By God’s grace, I’ll dance though the fire,

Knowing by faith I’ll not drown in the mire.

A survivor is never what I shall be

But a powerful overcomer for others to see.

My suffering, I’ll know, was never in vain,

Seeing someone’s miracle brought out of my pain.

My destiny isn’t sealed by today’s situation,

For my current position is not my final destination.

So, instead of giving up, I’m joining Loretta’s club.

I can do this.

...I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinks upon me.   You are my help and my deliverer; do not delay, O my God.    Ps 40:17


I really like the 40th Psalm.    I like to be reminded that He thinks about me.   Me.   Me?   Yeah, me.   You, too.


He also brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my steps.   (vs 2)


Ah, yes!    I just love knowing He is my deliverer and He takes my hand and lifts me from the horrible pit of self loathing and gluttony, and not only puts me on solid ground away from sinking sand, but he also sets up my path in a firm and permanent fashion.  


Trust...I simply must learn to trust Him. 


Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the man (or blessed am I) who trusts in Him!   Ps 34:8


It is better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in man (or myself).   Ps 118:8


Just one more:


PS 143:8  Cause me to hear Your lovingkindness in the morning, for in You do I trust; cause me to know the way in which I should walk, for I lift up my soul to You.