Certain Unalienable Rights

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed, by their Creator, with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

The themes of independence and liberty have come up a lot for me recently.  I have been philosophical in thinking about how the preamble to the Declaration of Independence applies to my life after weight loss surgery.  As I read the preamble, several phrases and words jump out at me.  To me, it is as if Thomas Jefferson knew that his words could have a very broad application and wrote them in way to make them accessible to more than just the members of the Continental Congress. It is as if he wrote the words to be universal in their appeal and transcendent in their meanings.

Truths that are self-evident; meaning truths that are obvious, truths that require no proof or explanation… they just “are.”  We are all created equal; we are endowed with certain fundamental rights by our Creator; we are endowed with life, with liberty, and the right to pursue happiness.

“Truth”   Truth is a powerful word.  And in the writing of this preamble, the author infused this simple word with even greater value by indentifying these truths to be self-evident.  Every truth that follows this very first thought of his phrase requires no proof because it is in the very nature of The Creator that they be true.

As an obese woman, the notion that I was created as an equal to all others on this earth was foreign to me.  I always felt unequal.  In fact, I was often treated unequal.  This is one of the driving forces behind my over achieving ways.  It seemed to me that I was required to perform “above and beyond” in order to merely play in the same league as thin people.  Because society identified me as a “less than” person, I knew I was starting with a deficit that had to be overcome (and then some) in order to be perceived as equal.

In this instance, weight loss surgery has given me two things.  First, and probably most importantly, I have come to see myself as equal.  I no longer perceive that I must begin far behind the start/finish line where all of the rest of the world is standing. I no longer identify my own self as a “less than” person simply because I have the disease of morbid obesity.  I have a disease.  I did not cause it.  It did not seek me out because I was some sort of a deficient human being.  Therefore, like all others, I am created equal. Created.  Equality was always inherently mine, endowed by my Creator, I just didn’t know it.   Second, I am now treated as an equal.  Those who would be prejudice now have no physical basis upon which to hang their judgments. It is a sad fact of our society, yet it is nevertheless true.  I am treated more nicely, with greater respect, and with less scrutiny than I was as an overtly obese woman. 

We are endowed with life.  My life is forever changed by WLS.  I believe that my weight loss surgery has endowed me with additional life, longer life, and far greater quality of life.  Before WLS, I was looking down the barrel of a loaded musket of co-morbidities.  My genetics had already loaded the gun with high blood pressure, diabetes, cancer, and heart disease.  My obesity had essentially cocked the gun, and my own behavior was shoving gun powder into the muzzle as fast as possible.  Now that I am a normal size, I have managed to significantly reduce the risk of that disaster in waiting.  It was a pretty sure shot that life as a senior adult was not going to be of high quality.  It was plausible that life could have gotten pretty bad, pretty quickly.  WLS has managed to uncock the gun and has helped me unload some of that gun powder.  The bullets are still in the chamber.  I can’t change that because my genetics are my genetics.  However, I’m no longer pointing the gun at my own head.

I am endowed with life.  I intend to live my life to its fullest. 

Liberty is another one of those unalienable rights given to us by our Creator.  I had no idea how significantly my liberty was impacted by my obesity.  I was literally captive in my own body.  There were so many things that I couldn’t or wouldn’t do because I was either too large to do them comfortably or I felt too embarrassed.  I had conveniently made up great excuses that downplayed my inabilities to do certain tasks. 

My best word to express the way I feel about my post operative life as it relates to liberty is “unshackled.”  I absolutely feel as if someone found the key to my handcuffs and leg irons and let me go. I am no longer walking around dragging 150 pounds of prison with me.  To be unshackled is to experience absolute freedom.  It is a kind of freedom that is enjoyed only by people who know what it is like to be unfree.  Those who have always had their freedom cannot possibly imagine the joy unspeakable that is associated with being released. 

I am able to move my body in ways that I never imagined to be possible.  I am always looking for new ways to move and new ways to express my body’s liberty from the ravages of a horrible, chronic disease. I am often like a two-year old who giggles in delight at each discovery of a previously unknown ability.  This liberty is priceless and makes me deeply grateful to The Creator for the weight loss surgery that set me free.

I am also grateful for the right to pursue happiness.  I am keenly aware that The Creator did not give me the right to immediate happiness; He gave me the right to pursue it.  WLS has given me a new opportunity to pursue true joy in life on a variety of levels.   Some of my seeking brings me to things completely and utterly on the surface.  They are the transient things that do not have eternal value; reveling in new clothing, getting new hair styles, and wearing high heels.  However, most of my pursuit is on a much deeper, soul level.   

I have shed the physical layers that were so much a source of pain, shame, and a feeling of complete and utter failure. Having shed those layers, I find (much to my surprise) that happiness is still something that I have to pursue.  I was mistaken to think that my pursuit of happiness was the weight loss alone.  I thought surely thinness would equal happiness.  It does not.  The physical part of me that is left after the weight loss is merely the foundation for pursuit of happiness.  The new life that I have been given, along with the liberty that frees me are the building blocks of this third, but ever-so-important inalienable right.  It is the only listed inalienable right that contains a verb, it is the only inalienable right that required something of me from the moment I receive it. 

Each day is a new opportunity to pursue happiness. I find that achieving happiness is much more about me than about my achievements or situations.  It has become clear that living an event-driven life does not produce lasting happiness.  If I am waiting for an event to make me happy, then I have missed the point.  I can no longer allow myself to fall into the trap of “I’ll be happy when this happens or when that happens.”  That is transient.  Lasting happiness is my responsibility, through a connection with The Creator. 

I am sure that Thomas Jefferson was aware how significant the Declaration of Independence was and that it would take its place in the history of a nation.  Yet, I don’t believe that he could have possibly known that he was writing the Preamble to the Declaration of Independence for one woman who would draw strength from it more than 200 years later. 

So, I close with this thought; Thomas Jefferson may not have known that he was writing to me.  However, I am sure that The Creator was well aware, even in 1776, that this preamble would give me pause to take a few moments out of a busy week to acknowledge His presence, His gifts, and the truths about Him that are self-evident. I am sure that The Creator knew that I needed to stop and look at all He has given me through this miraculous process called weight loss surgery; equality, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; precious gifts that are only endowed by a loving Creator.  For these, I am eternally grateful.  For these I thank the Creator who created me.

The Horse

The Horse

During my Junior year of college, I had a roommate who was a tried and true country girl.  Renee was from a local farm with horses, cows, chickens, rabbits and sundry other members of their family's menagerie.  As a girl from the suburbs of Atlanta, I was fascinated by the farm.  Every chance I had, I went home with her to soak in the sights, sounds and smells (oh, the smells!) of county living.  I felt like I was roaming free on the plains of the great prairie; never mind that the Smokey Mountains rose from the ground all around us.  I loved it all the same.

Renee was always delighted to share in new experiences with me.  She enjoyed teaching me about country life and having me stand wide eyed as she described some interesting aspect of farm operations.  In hind sight, I have to wonder if the girl had it out for me.  It seemed like every new experience brought an injury my way.  Renee, like me, was young and impulsive.  As I review events in my mind, I find that her teaching sessions inevitably left some important piece of information unsaid. 

There was the time that she introduced me to her bunnies.  She went into great detail about breeding them, feeding them, and how to care for babies.  However, when she handed me a bunny to hold, she didn’t mention that there was a special way to hold the rabbit in order to avoid the claws on the back legs.  In my excitement I reached out to take the rabbit that she was handing me and ended up getting terribly deep scratches across my wrist.  If I didn’t know better, I would have through my wrist looked like someone who had made a pretty serious suicidal gesture.  The wound was bad enough by itself, but I ended up getting “cat scratch fever” from the bunny’s claws.  Two trips to the doctor and a course of antibiotics later, I was fine.

Another learning incident occurred when Renee tried to teach me how to shoot a shotgun.  I had fired a gun before.  My dad had a .22 long rifle and I thought this new gun was going to be a piece of cake.  She brought the 12 gauge shotgun out of the house and set up some cans on the fence.  She gave me a quick course in gun etiquette and how to handle a gun when in the company of others. Then she showed me how to load both barrels, check the safety, and aim the gun.

The shotgun was heavy in my hands.  I was a big girl at the time, probably about 280 pounds.  So, the heft of the gun did not intimidate me (I should have been intimidated).  I placed the weapon against my shoulder, leaned my cheek against the butt, looked down the barrel, cocked the gun and prepared to fire.  No one had mentioned to me that a double barreled shotgun had two triggers.  For a brief moment, I nearly asked what the heck the two triggers were for, but I didn’t want to appear any less informed than I already felt.  I wrapped my index finger around both of the triggers and pulled. 

The next thing I remember is being flat on my back, in the gravel, with my legs in air.  Renee was laughing hysterically, but I couldn’t hear her.  All I could hear was the echo of a huge BOOM and a not-so-subtle ringing in my ears.  I also realized that I wasn’t breathing and struggled to make myself pull air into my lungs. I slowly got myself to back to my feet.  All Renee could manage to gasp out between her spasms of laughter was that I actually hit the target.

By this time, one would think that a bright, intelligent, dean’s listed college student would figure out that “learning” from Renee was risky business.  Yet, it only gets worse (or more humorous, depending upon your perspective). 

It is springtime in the hills of Appalachia.  I am 21 years old and full of zest and zeal (and possibly a little hypomanic); always looking for new adventures and new experiences.  Renee suggests that we go to the farm so she can let me ride their gorgeous horse, Goldie.   Wow, I haven’t been on an equine in nearly 10 years. I would love to ride Goldie. This should be fun.  I loved riding Uncle Grady’s ponies!  So, I’m experienced, right?  My experience consists of riding around a contained ring on Shetland Ponies.  I loved my Uncle’s ponies and enjoyed being around them.  However, ponies are very short horses.  The ground is quite close when one is on a pony.

We pull up to the farm and I’m thinking we’re going to the stable to get Goldie.  But, Renee begins to call for Goldie out of the pasture.  The horse comes galloping in, looking for a carrot.  She is large and proud, but still has some of her rough winter coat on.  Is it safe to ride a horse that hasn’t been ridden all winter?  Oh, I bet that means that she will be happy to finally have a rider again.  Renee says that Goldie is a good horse.  I should be fine.  Renee takes her by the halter and leads her to the stable. I get a lesson in a horses tack.

Once the horse is saddled, we head out to the pasture for my riding lesson.  My first hurdle is actually getting on Goldie.  From what Renee tells me, she is a big horse.  All horses look big to me, so I guess this is normal.  I put my foot in the stirrup and pull up; the saddle immediately slides toward me.  MAN! I’m not going to be able to get on this horse… I’m too fat. The saddle won’t even hold me. Sigh…  How embarrassing. Renee punches the horse in the ribs to get her to exhale.  This is ostensibly so that Renee can pull the cinch tighter.  She puts a bucket on the ground to give me a bit of a head start and I decide to give it another shot. 

This time, before I mount, Renee decides to go ahead and give me a few pointers.  “Goldie is a five gaited horse.”  Five gaited?  She says that like it is supposed to mean something to me.  Okay, I’ll play along. “She is neck trained and not bit trained.  That means you lay the reigns over her neck to get her to turn.  Pulling on the bit to turn her will just confuse her.”  Got that.  Don’t confuse the horse.  Lay the reigns across her neck.  “Goldie will move through her five gaits if you touch your heels to her side.  So, if you want to move from walk to trot, touch her side with your heels.  The more times you touch her side, the faster she will go.”  I ask her what to do if I don’t want Goldie to go faster. “Then, just don’t touch her side with your heels.  She will stay in the gait that you have her in.”  Walk is good.  I like walk. No heels shall ever touch this horse’s side. “And, of course, ‘whoa’ means ‘whoa.’ Pull up on the reigns and tell her ‘whoa.’”

Think, Julie… five gaits, no heels… neck reigned, not bit reigned… whoa means whoa.  Okay.  That’s three things to remember.  And, anyway, we’re just going to walk. No heels, no running. 

I finally manage to mount Goldie, with the help of Renee and that bucket.  Renee isn’t kidding when she says Goldie is a big horse.  I nearly got a nose bleed looking down.  Renee hands me the reigns, makes sure my feet are well planted in the stirrups and walks me around in circles a few times.  Hmmm.  Not bad.  I can do this. Renee then opens the gate toward the pasture and asks me if I am ready to try it on my own.  I nod my answer, take up the slack in the reigns, and give Goldie a cluck.

I immediately find myself on the back of an animal who has significantly different intentions than I do.  She turns out to pasture, pulls her head down, and goes from stand-still to full gallop in three strides.

WAIT!! I didn’t say run, I did NOT touch your sides!  Julie… get your heels away from her sides.  WHOA!  WHOA, GIRL!  Oh yeh, right. ‘whoa’ means ‘whoa.’  Who is Renee kidding?  WHAT five gaits?  This horse has TWO gaits. Keep those heels out. What do I do? What do I do?? Oh Geeesh, just hold on.

 The picture is quite humorous as I fly across the pasture on Goldie’s back with my feet stuck straight out away from her side.  I finally have to give up trying to stop her, drop the reigns and just hang on to the saddle horn for dear life.  I don’t know how long Goldie is going to run, but I’m not going to let go of that saddle horn; no way, no how.  I’ve got my balance now; my heels are not toughing her side and I’m in for the long haul.

Uh oh.  Why are we running straight toward that fence? Whooooa, STOP!!! What do I do? Oh God, we’re going to jump the fence.  Oh PLEASE God, don’t let us jump the fence.

As the fence approaches, I hold on tighter and put my head down.  I know this is not going to end pretty.  Just as I scrunch my face to brace, Goldie plants all four hooves in the ground and locks her knees.  I fly up and over the saddle horn and land wrapped around Goldie’s neck with my face planted between her ears.  All I can hear is my breath and Goldie’s breath. I am afraid to move.

Renee’s younger sister, Sasha, comes flying out of the house (next to the offending fence) yelling, “What’s all the commotion?  Oh, Julie!!… what the hell are you doing!?”  Do I really have to answer that?  Renee, who is running across the field, screams, “Julie was on Goldie’s back and Goldie got her head for home.”  Is THAT what you call it?  She ‘got her head?’ That is WAY too mundane a description for a runaway freight train. Why am I on a horse’s neck? I slowly lift my head and look at Sasha who says, “geesh Julie, what are you trying to do?  Here, let me show you how to ride the silly horse.”

I lift myself back over the horn of the saddle and start to dismount.  “No, no… stay on.  I’ll climb up behind you.” You have GOT to be kidding.  You want me to STAY on this horse? Before I can really get my wits about me, Sasha is sitting behind me on Goldie’s hind quarters and has the reigns in her hands.  I confirm with her that she actually does, in fact, know how to handle this horse.  She assures me that she does.  So, I reluctantly stay on the horse, at least in part because my legs are shaking so badly that I know I can’t stand on terra firma right this second. 

Sasha clucks at Goldie and I cringe thinking we are off to the races again.  But, shockingly, Goldie leans forward in a slow, lazy walk. Oh sure, Goldie… Now you walk. Sasha says, “See, that’s all there is to it.  Goldie has a nice, easy walk.  You just have to know how to ask her to do that.”  I was still holding on to the horn with white knuckles.  Sasha clucks again, and we move to trot.  This is not the most comfortable of gates.  It is choppy and bouncy.  So, Sasha quickly clucks again and we’re on to the canter.  Oh wow… this is very nice.  Goldie is like riding in a rocking chair.  I could do this.  I could really do this.  After we canter for a while and I am really enjoying the feeling, Sasha looks over my shoulder and says, “You have a good seat. Are you ready to try galloping the real way now?” I was so comfortable with the horse and her driver that I held on a little tighter and said, “Sure, Go for it.” 

Sasha clucks and snaps the reigns.  Goldie shudders under my thighs and then bounds forward with a joy that is absolutely contagious.  It is so different from my first frenetic galloping experience.  The three of us are flying across the pasture and I have visions of Black Beauty movie shots in slow motion.  My hair is flying in Sasha’s face, the wind is blowing in my face, and Goldie appears to be in her glory.  It is incredible to me how much ground we are actually covering and how easy it feels to be on an animal moving this quickly.

And then, without warning, I was rudely startled from my exuberance ….  “SNAP!”

What? What was that sound?... Goldie isn’t slowing down, it wasn’t her leg.

The saddle slowly begins to slide to the right.  It feels like it is happening in a time warp, but it is actually moving so fast that I can’t think to get my feet out of the stirrups.  Sasha falls off the back of Goldie, and I slide off her side fully attached to the saddle.

I can’t tell you how many times the saddle and I tumbled end over end.  I can’t even say that I remember the actual moment of the spill.  I can only tell you that I landed face down with no ability to breathe or move.  Renee’ came running over to me to find out if I was okay.  I managed to suck in enough air to demand that she not touch me. 

The world eventually stopped spinning and I was able to catch my breath.  I was still face down, but managed to do an inventory of my limbs.  Everything functioned, but with great pain.  After several minutes, I pulled it together enough to turn over and sit up.  Renee’ and Sasha helped me back to house when it was determined that a trip to the Emergency Room was in order.   The E.R. Doc told me that I had cracked a few ribs and that I would be unable to complete my music courses for the semester (singing and playing clarinet in front of a Jury was not recommend with cracked ribs). Due to the injury, I was required to take an “incomplete” in my studio classes. I was fortunate, really.  The outcome of this incident could have been much, much worse.

Even so, I have not been on a horse since that time.  It was 1983.

-------------

As I write, my 3-year bandiversary is this week.   I have been at goal weight for 2 years.  Each year, I make it a point to challenge myself physically in some way.  Last year, it was kayaking and whitewater rafting.  This year… this year it is rock climbing and horseback riding.  Yes… horseback riding. As a gift to myself for my 3^rd year bandiversary, I am going to get back on a horse. I am going to get back on the horse Friday. This go ‘round I have been much wiser in choosing my teacher. She is a certified Equine Therapist who knows how to introduce people to the joy of horseback riding.  It has been 24 years since the Goldie incident.  I am 100 pounds lighter, 24 years wiser, and willing to challenge myself both physically and emotionally.  I’m ready.  

____

I did ride, sucessfully... and loved every minute of it!   :)  

The Red Flannel Shirt

On a bleak, grey Saturday in the throws of fall, 

feeling so full of despair

I stand at the closet, scanning the rows, thinking, 

“Oh God, what do I wear?”

I scanned back at forth, hating each choice; 

but smiled when I saw it there.

So soft and so warm, just like an old blanket,

was my husband’s red flannel shirt.

I looked and I wondered if the shirt would look nice

Would a pair of my leggings and fuzzy boots suffice?

Could the shirt even fit, I’ve been feeling so fat

There’s only one way to be sure of all that

So on a bleak, grey Saturday in the throws of fall, 

a woman so full of despair

Took from the closet, a simple, worn shirt,

hoping her heart to repair

And well it did fit, it hung close to her knees,

with plenty of room to spare

She twirled and she danced; the mirror, it smiled,

at her in her husband’s ole faded shirt.

I stopped and I looked at the mirror so long

For that tender moment my heart was in song

My husband, he loves me;

My God knows my hurt

And I got the message

in a red flannel shirt.

The Eagle's Song

I am an Eagle.

Getting ready to soar above all that is behind me

And below me.

My wings grow stronger and courage blossoms within my soul.

My spirit has found its liberty.

Hope rises as I look out over my world.

It hasn’t always been this way, you see.

For I remember a hard, dark shell;

One that seemed impossible to shed.

Yet, it was warm and cozy on the inside,

Bright and beautiful on the outside.

I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to be free.

But that was just it:  The trap.  It was NOT free.

Just dark and hard.

There was life within, but no living.

I was stuck in what seemed like forever.

Then it happened, with one great push.

A hole, a very small hole was created in my shell.

Light flooded in.

It scared me at first.  This light was unfamiliar.

Yet it soon became a comfort and I wanted more.

So I pushed as an Unknown Force pushed with me.

Bit, by painful bit, my prison broke away.

Not all at once, mind you, but slowly.  Ever so slowly.

I began to stretch and move and breathe.

The Light became brighter, and suddenly I was free.

From that moment on I was loved and nurtured by other who had just broken free

And by some who were already flying.

My legs were weak and spindly, my wings small and useless.

I wobbled around; testing, trying, looking to the Light.

And the ones who were already flying pushed me closer

to the edge of the nest.

I balked and beat the air in protest with my wings.

The more they nudged, the more I protested.

In doing so, I noticed a strength that was growing.

I began to flap a little on my own, without their nudge

(cautiously at first, and then a bit more bravely).

As I did, my wings began to grow and take shape.

They were awkward to begin with and still are in a small way.

Yet, I have taken tiny test flights in the nest.

They are sure to hold me up.

So here I stand.  I am an Eagle.

Looking over the whole world from the edge of the nest.

Getting ready to Soar to all that I am meant to be.

To say that I am unafraid would be to lie.

But I am ready to soar!

I have been in that awful shell for much too long.

And even though I know that the flight won’t always be easy,

And that soaring won’t always be effortless,

The fact that I am an Eagle will never change.

I was born to be an Eagle,

I was born to fly free.

The Keeper

“Mavis, Julie, Wendi!  Please come here.”

“Okay Daddy, I’m coming.”

It was a Sunday Morning. We were busily going about our typical routine to get ready for church.  But, when Dad called, it wasn’t an option to say “Just a minute.”  So, My Mom, my sister and I dropped what we were doing and filed into the bedroom.  He was standing there with a clip board tucked under his arm, looking very resolute about something that was to be a complete surprise to me.

My father was a Marine, and even though he had long been out of the Corps, he was a Marine through and through.  That often lent itself to a boot camp type atmosphere around the house. None of us were sure why Dad had called us in.  I just knew that I was suddenly awash in anxiety which came with a nauseous dread in the pit of my stomach.

His announcement began with, “I am going to help everyone in this house with their weight.  So, we’re all going on a diet and I am going to keep a chart of our weights, including mine.”  My heart sank.  I wanted to run into the bathroom and throw up.  But, all I could do is stand there and take my marching orders.  In my patriarchal household, resistance was futile. My mother and I were clearly overweight.  My baby sister and my father were what I would judge to be of fairly normal build. He held up the clip board with a grid drawn on it and outlined his plan.  Every Sunday morning, while we were still in our underwear getting ready for church, we were to stand in line and have our weights charted. We could lose the weight any way we wanted, but on weigh-in days he expected progress.  I was mortified.

No matter how hard I tried, this very stressful, dad-enforced diet backfired. Sunday mornings became the entire fixation of my existence.  I was 16 and an honor student in high school, yet I had no idea how to “diet.”  The guidance I was given was “just stop eating when you’re satisfied.”  Well, what in the heck does THAT mean?  I was never satisfied.  I had a hunger that absolutely gnawed at my soul.  But who would believe that?  It would be seen as weakness or lameness of mind if I were to confess such a thing; much less ask for help. I wasn’t the only one struggling. My sister, a pre-teen, most likely began her 20-year fight with the disease of anorexia during this time. My mother remained quiet and tried to help us as much as she could without upsetting the balance in the house.  She was under as much scrutiny as the rest of us.

I was humiliated to trot my fat, nearly naked adolescent body in front of my father on a weekly basis to have it judged by him.  I was already deeply ashamed of my body and my inability to get control of my weight issues.  Dad’s marine routine cemented my shame into an even deeper place in my psyche, as if a dentist were filling a cavity without clearing the underlying decay.

I may as well have been naked as I stood there waiting to be weighed, because I felt stripped bare of any dignity that I may have ever had.  I felt nauseated each time my turn came up to get my weight charted.  The nausea was partner to my shame as well as to the fear that I felt because I knew I was failing. While I was on the boot camp diet, my weight climbed to over 200 pounds for the first time ever.  At the age of 16, my battle with the disease of morbid obesity had begun in earnest.  Each week, as I was paraded into the restroom to stand before that small, white, mechanical box on the floor, my lifelong, mortal struggle with The Keeper was emblazoned onto my reality.

The Keeper. 

The Keeper of approval, love and acceptance.  

I just knew that if I could make The Keeper’s numbers go DOWN, then I could finally get the unconditional acceptance from my father that I so deeply desired.  But, the keeper was stubborn; relentless even.  Those numbers would only go up as it tortured me with the scrolling sound of its wheel spinning furiously to that horrible threshold of 200 pounds.  I thought I could trick The Keeper by putting more pressure on one foot to make the wheel slide just a tiny bit lower.  However, my father, The Marine, made me stand up straight, with my shoulders back.  HE wanted to read the wheel and announce the findings of The Keeper.  Oh God, could this get any worse?

The boot camp diet was eventually abandoned.  Even my father could identify a failed strategy.  He was a smart businessman.  Of course, he blamed the failure on the execution of the plan, not the plan itself. Graciously, very little was said as the diet was abandoned.  It just kind of dwindled away.  I held my breath every Sunday morning for months wondering if we were suddenly going to be called into the bathroom again.  I moved around very quietly in the house trying not to remind him that we were there or that he forgot to weigh us.  I only breathed again when I slipped out the front door to leave for church having escaped another confrontation with The Keeper.

The Keeper. 

The Keeper of joy, optimism, and youthful exuberance. 

Not long after I escaped the enforced diet, a buzz of excitement filled my teenage imaginations.  We were going to get NEW band uniforms for my marching band.  This was the news of the century as far as I was concerned.  The old uniforms were staunchy, stiff, wool, military style uniforms that were way out of style with the hip, cool drum and bugle corps style that “everybody” was wearing at the time.  We were going to be the coolest band at competition.  We were going to WOW the hometown crowd when we took the field for half-time. And, I was finally going to have a uniform that fit correctly because I was going to have one ordered especially for me. 

My heart sank when I found out that we weren’t just going to order band uniforms by clothing size.  We had to be measured for these uniforms.  I panicked as I thought of someone having to write down my overblown measurements on a sheet of paper.  It was WAY too close to the clipboard experience. And anyway….. who knew what person may have access to those numbers.  My true girth might be exposed world.  The entire band would know how huge I actually was.

Through my panic, I thought of every way possible to skip out on the day of measuring.  I obsessed about ways to feign illness or injury. But the catch was that I still wanted my uniform.  I had to get measured to get a uniform.  So, I decided to go with my most familiar response… fake it. I bounded into the band room as if nothing were wrong.  We were all supposed to be really excited about these new uniforms, so I had to put on my best face.  As I burst through the double doors full of affected zeal, I was stopped dead in my tracks by a wave of old, familiar nausea.  The room was filled with band members, chairs, stands, and instruments, but I instantly had a singular focus. Between the two band moms with measuring tapes around their neck, stood The Keeper.

The Keeper completely colored my experience with measuring day.  I had steeled myself for the tape measures.  I had even prepared for the clipboard.  But The Keeper stood there, judging me.  My world collapsed inwardly as I attempted to keep my composure and not expose how nauseous I had become.  The Keeper jeered at me. I heard its metal weights clank as a fellow clarinet players had her measurements taken.  Of course, SHE was petite.  It was as if I was being taunted by The Keeper while I waited for my turn.  There was no privacy; it was all out in the open.  I found as many reasons as I could to look busy doing other things around the band room before I actually stepped into line.  I hoped that the others would be finished and be on their way, leaving fewer witnesses to my measuring.  

I finally stepped up on The Keeper’s platform, defeated and embarrassed.  My eyes pleaded with the band mom not to reveal what The Keeper said.  She understood and quickly scrambled the weights after getting a reading.  But, what I saw elated me.  It was horrible, but I was ecstatic!  There was ONE girl in the trumpet section that was fatter that me!!  I wasn’t the fattest girl in the band!  I was the 2^nd fattest girl in the band.  Nobody cares about the 2^nd anything!  The 2^nd runner-up is invisible! It is the ONLY time in my achievement-driven life that 2^nd was not only acceptable, but desirable.  I was so deeply relieved that my knees nearly crumpled below me.  And I cringe as I write this because I didn’t even feel bad about what the other girl was going to have to endure.

The Keeper is supposedly a mechanical device used to measure a person’s weight.  But, I was sharply aware that it measures far more than weight.  It measures the character of a person.  Surely a person of high moral character would be able to control herself enough to stop stuffing food in her mouth.  A person of high moral character would not sneak food to secretly salve the feelings that were not otherwise permitted to be addressed. A moral person would not LIE about how much food she was really consuming.  The Keeper measures a person’s relationship with God.  A truly committed Christian would not abuse the temple of the Holy Spirit with such overindulgence, such gluttony.  A person who was fully sold out to God would be able to pray enough to withstand temptation.   If a person was living a genuine Christian life, then they would be able to do “all things through Christ which strengthens them.”  The Keeper reminded me every day that I was a failure at being strong enough in Christ to defeat this particular demon.

The Keeper is a thief, a liar, a judge, an accuser, and a dictator.  It steals my joy, declares me a failure, exposes my transgressions, and makes the determination as to whether I am a good girl or a bad girl. It keeps all that I am wrapped up in the spin of its wheel.  If only that wheel wouldn’t spin so far, then I would BE a better person.  I could prove, once and for all, that the accolades I receive for my piano, for academics, for my clarinet, for my voice, for Beta Club, for being a nice person and a good Christian, for being helpful, funny, witty, smart ..… that those are not accolades given to a stark imposter.  I reasoned that I couldn’t possibly be a person who excels at everything and so clearly fails in the eyes of The Keeper. 

These beliefs of my teenage years not only spilled over into my life as a young adult, they became a tsunami of unhealthy thoughts, coping skills and behaviors.  I was embroiled in addiction, an undiagnosed mental illness, ever worsening morbid obesity, and a family that moved from crisis to crisis (usually complements of my baby sister). The scales remained my enemy for decades.  I roamed from diet to diet trying to make those stupid numbers go down.  I finally swore off the scale.  I wouldn’t step on one for any reason. I even stopped going to doctors so that I would not have to face a scale.   The Keeper completely and utterly broke my will to address my weight in any kind of constructive or healthy way.  The Keeper won.

Gratefully, recovery happens.  The full story of my recovery comes in other written chapters of my life.  However, this particular journal entry would feel incomplete were I to leave it on the penultimate chord of the symphony.  So, I will skip over a few of the movements and jump right to the coda for now.

As I approach mid-life, there is no longer a reality in my life called “the keeper.”  Through much work, effort, soul searching, and internal remodeling, coupled with many extra helpings of the grace of God, the keeper’s voice has far less power.  I have not come to a complete peace with scales. However, there is on most days, a cautious truce. The scales are not my friend, but they are no longer the mortal enemy. They do not carry the personification of being the keeper because I have recaptured their fiefdom.  I no longer allow them the power of swallowing my hopes and dreams in a rotating dial, a digital readout or a sliding weight.  I also understand that my father, though misguided, was doing all that he knew to help us with a problem.   I have long since forgiven him.  

I still struggle with weight, obesity and body image.  And to some degree, I believe that I probably always will.  However, this is a far cry from allowing a mechanical device to judge me as an inferior being that is of poor character and limited intelligence. I don’t have to do that any more.  I have a choice to be free from that judgment.  And, I at least now know that I have a choice to live daily in a very simple understanding about scales; an understanding that brings the numbers on its face into life-affirming perspective:  Scales merely measure one of many indicators related to the overall health of my body.  They measure my weight.  They do not measure me.