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I wish I could say that my body abuse is all over; that I love my body.  I cannot; I am just not there yet.  After almost 50 years of abusing this body; finding the body love will take time.  Maybe you can relate to my story…

Clothes have defined my worth.  As a preschooler; I couldn’t wait to wear my school dresses.  They were all mine; not my sister’s hand me downs.  My mom had purchased them just for me and boy did I wear those dresses.


As a 4 year old; I strutted my stuff!
As a 4 year old; I strutted my stuff!
Even at 4 I knew the power the clothes had over my self-esteem.  I loved when the Sears catalog arrived and I would slap those heavy pages until I saw the girls section.  Then I would spend hours picturing myself in those cute little dresses, matching shorts and tops.  My neighbor wore those matching short/top sets  and I would go home and try to organize my drawers as hers were but I didn’t have those matchy outfits.  I had only hand me downs.

Yet, I did have a rockin barbie doll collection and if I couldn’t have those cute clothes; she would!  

I had trunksfull of barbie high heels, evening gowns, skirts, dresses and blouses.  I even used the barbie hangers to organize her closets.  I never cared for the career gear such as doctor, flight attendants or veterinarian outfits and Ken held no power.

My barbie was all about the bling, glitz and glamour!  

My Barbie drove her convertible in her high heels and formal wear. She slept in her barbie townhouse in her beaded nightgown. This plastic doll allowed me to escape the craziness at home.  20 years later I swapped my barbie dolls for my daughter.  We will get to that.

Grade school dampened my dazzle.  Everyday For 12 years I was required to wear the same uniform with white shirt and white saddle shoes.  

Even though the clothing dimmed my bling; I loved school; the structure allowed me to shine.  It grounded me and gave me peace.  I didn’t even mind the hair pulling from Mrs. Bechler maybe because I felt like I deserved it.
When I was not playing with my barbie dolls; I was a wild child.  With 6 kids and ill health, my mom couldn’t give us the structure and discipline that children need to thrive.  I spent a lot of time with my grandmother who rarely gave love.  She was tough and some of the things she did would account as child abuse.  Although I didn’t love her; I respected the hell out of her and under her strict tutelage I thrived.
So, I was used to physical smack downs and verbal abuse so I wouldn’t get too big for my britches!
 I didn’t think I was very smart until I flunked a math test.   You would think that flunking a test would confirm one’s lack of brain power.  What happened next changed everything…
The moment my mom saw that grade she sat me down and told me that I was smart and I was not allowed to get poor grades.  She made me do addition tables until they stuck in my head like cement.

A week later, I transformed my 1s (F’s)  to 5s (A’s) and amazed Mrs. Bechler.  The hair pulling was not as frequent.

I still have that first report card where she wrote that she had never seen such a dramatic turnaround in all her years of teaching but that my handwriting was horrible.
I tackled that handwriting too so take that Mrs. Bechler.

Hello boobs and booty!

I was still strutting my stuff in 4th grade.  Unfortunately, that was about to come to an abrupt end.
I was still strutting my stuff in 4th grade. Unfortunately, that was about to come to an abrupt end.


By 5th grade I was a 34C and had my bubble butt (a nickname my uncles lovingly named my ample assets).  I didn’t attract my grade school age boys because I also had frizzy hair and acne.  I ached to look like my older sister who had long brown hair, big green eyes and the freedom to wear makeup.  Yet the older men didn’t care so much about acne and frizz…
Even though I looked older and curvy and started to sense my power to lure men; I was essentially a little girl.  I remember being at target with some friends while my mom shopped in another part of the store.  An older man walked up to me asking my age when I told her 10; he said he couldn’t wait until I was 18 so he could ravage my body.  I can still see how his sunglasses would slip down his greasy nose.  I was terrorized and refused to enter Target again.
One year later with short hair, big boobs and acne.  I spent hours trying to get me hair to obey.  I constantly tried to scrub the acne away.
One year later with short hair, big boobs and acne. I spent hours trying to get me hair to obey. I constantly tried to scrub the acne away.
Not long after that event, my childhood became even more precarious with my father losing his business and health.  Literally overnight we went from having a one of the biggest homes in the neighborhood to losing a car and having a For Sale sign in front of the house.  My mom had no clue as well and even as though she was sick, she had to go to work.  Since she worked at a hospital, I spent my childhood either picking her up from work or visiting her in the hospital.  As for my dad, he became ill with diabetes and  went blind.  Even though he was always a complainer, his negativity became louder.  He could be verbally abusive.

The way I handled all this turmoil was turning to food.

 I had to let go of my dancing and gymnastic classes due to finances and my cute little curves became big and full of cellulite.  The teasing intensified; yet I was tough and would bite back pretty hard while being the queen of people pleasing.  The words hurt and are still by my side even 30 years later.

Expressing my needs that were not in alignment with my mother’s was not allowed.  

If I said I was mad; she would tell me I wasn’t.  If I didn’t want to do something for her; she called me selfish. No conflict between  siblings was allowed, so I used food to stuff my feelings.
Eventually, my parents divorced and my mom hated anything related to his side of the family.  She called them ugly and would pick apart their features.  Since I didn’t know them, I believed what she said and since I looked like my father…..
To this day, I look at myself in the mirror all I see is ugly; because I saw my father and according to my  mother, my father was ugly.  I know I am not a natural beauty and I do know that I am striking because of my big eyes, big hair and the way I dress my big butt.  
But I hate looking at pictures of myself or my videos.    I used to be obsessed over certain women; I would try to mold myself into the same league and I failed miserably.  They will always be thinner, richer and prettier but that wasn’t the reason I obsessed over them; it was when you add that they were so mean to me.  I have plenty of friends who are all those things AND they full of integrity and kindness.  
Perception is a personal thing.  As I was told that my feelings were wrong I had no problem handing that wisdom to others.    I hid my body hate by being a smart and sassy.  Yet, this perception thing hit me right across the face and it came from someone who I didn’t trust, who was screwed in the head.  This person was my ex-brother in law and when I was 23 my older sister was hating on my mom and sharing how she was mistreated.  Being the loyal daughter I stood up to her and my brother in law but then he said something that has stuck with me since:

“It does not matter if this is fact or fiction.  This is her perception and to her it is 100% true.”

That perverse strange man was right.  Her feelings were real to her and deserved to be honored.  Those feeling may be wrong; but telling her that they were only built a bigger wall.
Then I remember my perception of my childhood and the basis of my body hate.  Other family members will see this differently so I emphasize that this is my perception and as I honor yours I ask you to respect mine.
During the downward family spiral; my mom created this ritual of shopping with my sister.  Every Saturday, my dad would drive us to Jamestown Mall  My mom would use the credit cards that were not yet maxed out to fill my sister’s closets with clothes.  I sat in  the 5-7-9 store begging her to buy me one thing; just one thing.  She never did.
Her motives were not cruel but based on me getting hand me downs from my sister.  The problem was that I was built totally different than my older sister.  She has thin legs and big boobs while I was curvier with ample assets below.

 I tried to fit into those clothes, it just didn’t work.

 As a result, I was told to go on a diet, that I was too big on the bottom.  Here I am 35 years later still chasing those jeans; berating my body into submission.  But just like a child who feels rejected, my body felt the same way..
I wrote this blog in November 2013. Today, on August 20, 2015 I have to be honest; my body abuse has been going strong.  With a lazy thyroid and hitting 50; my body is turning its back on me.  I have been religious with my thyroid medication. I exercise consistently.  I stay away from gluten like it is the plague.  Yet, as I type this I can feel my butt filling out my chair and my lower abs laying on my upper thigh.
Although, my title is the catalyst to help you change your relationship with food and your body; I feel like a fraud.  How can I help you if I cannot help myself?
Stay tuned, because I am going to show you exactly how you can end your body abuse and it has nothing to do with looking at yourself naked or chanting affirmations.

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