I'm fat. Oh, I got fat again... I say that I got fat when I wasn't looking but I was looking... and I was getting fat. Perhaps my fat-suit was what I used to ensure that no one would get close enough to hurt me (I just didn't realize that the only one that was hurting me was me). It really started to get out of control when I moved to Newfoundland after high school. At first I would get drunk and have sex with someone, anyone, just once and never look at them again. I used sex instead of food for a while. Somehow that wouldn't placate me so I stopped the sex and went back to just getting drunk and pigging out... go to a bar, get wasted, go home, get fat. Eventually I stopped getting drunk because it hindered my desire to eat on the way home. Then I stopped going to the bar, too, and just hit the drive thru instead... sometimes more than once a night. Food was my punishment for being me.
I used to laugh and joke about how, in the end with Karl, I would go to Dairy Queen before supper every night - and after. I was trying to get him to go away. That was me, not wanting to be with him any more but seriously lacking the ability to tell him like a normal person would. I knew if I ate enough he would go away eventually... he already thought I was too fat so obviously getting fatter would give him reason to end things. The funny part of that is it didn't work. I had to leave him. But I'm sure he would have eventually ended things if I didn't go because, by the time I was done with him, he had to have been dancing on the ceiling to see me walk out that door. So I guess the weight gain didn't totally work. I always thought that it did but it looks like it was the bitch sleeping in his bed that really hit the ball out of the park.
But food was still a great tool to use to push people away. Eventually I got better at being a bitch and that helped but the thing that worked best to make me hate me was food. I couldn't wait for Fabian to go home so that I could eat. Eat eat eat. Every night. Every night I would wait for him to leave so I could have something to eat. I would be happy on the nights that he didn't come over because I could eat. I would lie in bed after sex and plan all of the things that I would eat if he left. If he stayed I didn't have anything but if he left I had everything - because I was sure that he went home because I was fat. Turns out that the weight gain didn't work with him either... score two for the bitch.
Then Ian. I started putting on weight early; I was becoming a pro. Man did I blimp out. I used to be so concerned about the difference in our size... obviously the best thing that I could do was put on more weight. I really loved him and I really thought that he loved me but I have to admit that there were a lot of walls that he couldn't get past... but I couldn't take them down when I didn't know they were there. It was so much easier to just believe that eventually he would walk... even if I had to prove it to him. Deep down I needed to hold on to all of the things that I always believed about myself... because not believing the bad stuff about me meant that I had to believe good stuff about him, trust him, relinquish control, let go. No. That's not me at all.
The day that his divorce was final and he made the crack 'what? I gotta marry you now?' didn't really affect me at the time, I don't think (because yes, yes, yes!). I remember reading on here that Ian said we would be together until our pubes turned gray and fell out... and I thought it was sweet! Really! But when I looked back on that day, perhaps when I needed to take that conversation, twist it around and use it as proof, the 'I gotta marry you' comment was remembered with a totally different tone. Oh, I was so caught up in myself, in my own pain, in the making of my own pain because I didn't understand why I couldn't stop it and that only caused more pain. I caused him pain, too, I'm sure, but I didn't see it at the time. He got steadily on my nerves more and more, nothing he did was good enough. Because I was working so hard at pushing him away most of the time and he was trying to be nice to me - most likely just trying to figure out what was causing the bitch to come out - the bitch came out more. Eventually I became tired. It takes a lot of work to continuously push someone away. You would think that it was easy but it really was difficult. Pair that with my need to be right and always get my way (his perception of me) and he walked. Wait, no... I told him I was going to leave, he wanted to stay together but I would move out, and I finally realized that I had found the most amazing man that ever lived. And I was going to really, really try to work things out with him. It was the proof that I was looking for that he truly loved me, I was okay, I was finally ready to let the wall down. And when I went to his house to tell him - well, show him mostly because I still don't do the words so good in person - when I went to tell him, he was on the phone with another woman and he broke my heart. I never blamed him for looking elsewhere, all he really did was confirm a belief that I had held for most of my life. I had been just about ready to get past it but he proved me right. And part of me was relieved - I was right.
Eventually I realized how lonely it was to be right all the time. It was the beginning of the period of epiphany and change. And somehow I convinced him to give me another chance because I realized that I really did love him enough, to not only try again but to succeed this time. And I was there. I was present in that relationship and I was in it for the long haul. I knew we had our problems but there was nothing that we couldn't get through. Because we loved each other. And one day I got pissed off with him on a ski hill - when the real problem was my absolute humiliation (at having a dozen people watch me fall down and not be able to get up, oh, watch the whale try to get up, watch her flail, oops she's down again, haha, can't get her skis off, do you think she might cry, oh, how entertaining) - but I apologized and tried to explain what was going on. A couple of days later he was back on the prowl... and he broke my heart again.
Months later it was almost as if we might find our way back to each other. I finally figured that I was strong enough so I broke down and asked to see Daisy - and him. I don't even remember what excuse I gave him. He seemed to be drawn to me as much as I was drawn to him although we were both fighting it. Well, we both fought it the first time; the second time I thought we both were giving into it... I know I was. It was as if we were connecting again in some small way... not enough to jump into anything but enough to let the idea of it dance around. I had hurt him and he gave me chance after chance so, armed with my newly found ability to put away the fat suit, I decided that I would give him another chance, too. It takes three strikes for the game to really be over. Then, after he tried to get me into bed and I said no, he stopped all contact. Didn't even reply to my email. What an ass! But then his mother sent me an email that made my heart explode. No, I think the moment that my heart exploded was when I saw him in the hospital bed. But it exploded in a good way, it grew a size or two. I was so happy for him and scared for him and worried for him and excited for him and in love with him. I stayed in his house for a week and I was home. I was home with my baby and he would soon be there, too, and maybe we could find a way to get it right this time. I slept in his bed and I did as much as I could do for him and his mother while he was in the hospital and I busted my ass cleaning his house the night before he came home. I cared like I had never cared for anyone before. And my heart got bigger and bigger. And I thought that he was having those feelings again. And then I was sure he was having those feelings again. And then he broke my heart... again.
But it will mend eventually. My fat suit is under permanent destruction - at least all the bad feelings that it brought - and I will fall in love again. I'm in no hurry, I'm letting myself mourn the loss of love for probably the very first time (and without hair loss or vomit!) and, when I'm able to put aside this loss, I will pin my heart back onto my sleeve and try again... hopefully, this time without the bitch. And without the food.
