On Help and Humility

I have spent the day packing, cleaning, and spackling holes in preparation of painting my entire house... An entire day for it to look like I just moved a bunch of stuff around. I also decided today that it would be so much easier to just burn it all to the ground.

Please keep any flammable items - lighters, matches... hell... even magnifying glasses - out of my reach until I am safely residing in Tennessee. Otherwise I will absolutely light all this up.

I digress. My husband leaves Tuesday night to be with his family as his grandfather and the Nelms family patriarch passes out of this life and on to the next. Once Jason leaves his family in West Tennessee, he will head to one of his job options – neither of which are here with us. Our indefinite time apart beings within 24 hours.

I find being overwhelmed with how much there is to do to be my knee jerk reaction. I’m going to bed insanely late. Get up ridiculously early. Sacrificing time with my kids – who I genuinely like – becomes a necessity out of too much pride and shame to ask for help. We all know being a parent in general is a big job. Being a solo parent for a few months is a slightly bigger job. Selling a house and moving states away while your biggest support can only video chat with you is damn near impossible.

But here I sit... feeling like I have to do it all by myself. Like asking for help is an admission that I am not capable of managing my own life. That simply saying “I need _____” is the absolute worst thing I could do right now. But why? Why is asking for help such a sign of weakness? Everyday I tell my kids when they are sad or frustrated that I can’t help them if they don’t ASK FOR HELP. Why can’t I take my own advice? Even accepting offered help is incredibly hard.

BUT WHY?!?!?

As I spackled my four millionth hole today, I really focused on this question as I fought back tears of overwhelmed-ness. For me, it comes down to two big reasons. Being fat means I have been taught that I am not allowed to inconvenience others – ever. Simply existing in more space than others is already viewed as an inconvenience, so asking someone to do something for me makes feel the weight of that overarching judgement pretty heavily. Which really sucks, because there are a lot of people who really love me and want to help me, but accepting that makes me feel weak. And, as discussed in previous posts, being weak is not an option when you are fat.

I also reflected on my time in the LDS church. I was Mormon for a long time and a lot of the great things in my life have come by way of the church. But, through my formative years and a large portion of my adulthood, I was told that self-reliance is the way to peace, happiness, and a blessed afterlife. Self reliance, enduring to the end, and seeing trials as a test of one’s character and faith were drilled into me from the time I was 12 until I left the church at 30. Essentially, asking for help was an open admission that you lacked faith or had made a bad choice somewhere along the way.

I think my inability to ask for help comes primarily from these experiences. I am also an insane control freak whose never really needed help. Or, I have been in denial about when I need it. ‘ll save that crazy for the therapist! But instead of using this platform to whine, I am hoping to use it to change myself and help others think. Melissa from this morning was brainstorming ways to not need help. So, the more enlightened Melissa from tonight will simply as for it. Like Michael Scott declaring bankruptcy, I stand before you stating:

I NEED HELP. LOTS OF IT.

I need help with my kids. I need help in my house. I need help with my feelings. I need help. I’ve been so bold as to create a signup  sheet on google docs. If you would like to see said sign up sheet, let me know. I’ll share it with you.

I am not sure how being this bold in asking for help will be received. If people think I am abusing the opportunity to ask for help, so be it. They don’t have to help. But for anyone who has a spare minute that they want to throw my way, I would take it in a heartbeat right now.

I would also be grateful forever.

I am trying to be real. Honest. Vulnerable. Let people know that, even though I am a generally happy person, who is loved and loves others deeply, that struggles aren’t always a result of your actions. And sometimes, you have a hard time even when you are a good and happy person. It's called beig a human. Sometimes, there is just a lot to do and not enough resources to do it. And that doesn’t make you a bad, faithless, less worthy person. Needing help is ok. It’s allowed.  Even for a fat ex-Mormon like myself.

I hope you know that I still see my life a beautiful and charming. It’s just hard right now. It won’t be hard forever. But I am learning that the level of hard is directly proportionate to my willingness to exercise genuine humility and ask for help. 

ANUSTART

The good news? Anyone waiting for a spot at SASC or Faith Presbyterian will have their chance in January. Get by your phones!

The bad news? It’s because our time in Tallahassee has come to a close. Our family is moving to Knoxville, TN the week between Christmas and New Year’s.  Our house is going on the market as soon as  our Realtor is back from vacation in mid-November.

I wish I could say this is because of an amazing job opportunity- that we will make tons of money and we are essentially riding off into the sunset. It’s not exactly that. Don’t misunderstand – the market in Knoxville for what Jason does is significantly better than it is in Tallahassee. It is a bigger city with lots of private industry career opportunities as opposed to Tallahassee, which is completely contracting for the state government. He will actually have the chance to grow within a company  and expand his skill set, as opposed to scrounging for a contract every few years, with crappy benefits and lower than industry average pay. Something really different is what we were looking for when he resigned in July. A CAREER – not a job. We have several irons in the fire, and it is only a matter of time before he is working again.

I wish I could post pictures of a house we have already offered on, that is a huge yard with an open floor plan and tons of natural light pouring into the designer kitchen, but I can’t. We are currently scrounging for a short term rental that will simply take our dog (and kids!) Three months of unemployment doesn’t look super great to mortgage companies (even when you have impeccable credit) I get it. Those pictures will have to come next Spring.

I wish we had made this choice under different circumstances, but Jason has been actively looking for work for 3+ months. We first expanded the job search to other areas of Florida – Jacksonville and Pensacola... then Orlando. Then recruiters would mention other markets that were “on fire” for people like Jason in other states. So, we considered living apart while Jason would take shorter term, higher paying contracts and travel. The problem is, we tried it. For one week I took our kids to DISNEY while Jason went to Tennessee indefinitely for a family emergency. It was awful. At the happiest place on earth all my kids wanted was their dad. All I wanted was their dad. All he wanted was us. Mind you, this was seven days. There is no way we were going to last weeks at a time on just a few weekend visits. I commend the families that manage this lifestyle. It is not for the faint of heart -  which is exactly what I am.

After about 7 weeks, we said, “Fine. Open up to anywhere and we will see what is out there!”

And the calls came. Austin. All over California. The Midwest. But nothing felt right. We would browse the housing, cities, and school districts of the more interesting jobs that would call and just not feel as good about those places as we do about Tally. We would let the opportunity pass, and continue searching for either short term contracts away or local positions in Tally. Until one day a recruiter from Knoxville called with a request for someone who “loves to swim in data.” That is Jason. He loves data. He loves to do technical stuff to it. The job was intriguing. And we already know about Knoxville because Jason went to college there for a couple years and my sister lives there. We have visited and loved it each time we have gone.

And the clouds parted. Light shone down. Angels sang.

For the first time in months we felt optimistic about a job and a place at the same time. Genuine excitement at the thought of “anustart” (if you get that reference, I will miss you most!) I wish this choice didn't look like a choice born of desperation from the outside looking in. Because the truth is, we have options. There are still people calling Jason about Tallahassee jobs that would quickly restore our life to what it was. Or, bigger moves to more remote places that would change our lifestyle completely by lowering the cost of living while increasing our income... But none of those options feel right the way this does. If you had asked us when Jason left his job in July if we were planning to move, the answer would have been a hard "NO!" I am glad things have gone the way they have - it has opened our eyes to what we really need and want. The simple truth is, Knoxville is where we feel like we are supposed to be right now. I mean, look at the skyline!

We will miss the life we have made in Tallahassee. But, the screaming emanating from my front yard as my kids load up for school is becoming too regular of an indicator to ignore that it is time for a change. We need it. The kids need it. We built something beautiful here, but we aren’t done building. We need something different than what we can get here, and Knoxville has what we are looking for. I love that so many families have called Tallahassee home for generations, and this time last year, I thought we would be one. But whatever is running this universe has a different plan.

So, we are trading Disney for Dollywood. Beaches for mountains and white water rafting. Seminoles for the Vols! Sweltering summers for four definitive seasons (the cold will take some adjusting, but my winter body game is strong – I will survive!) The kids are excited for snow and for the first time in my life, I am, too! We will miss you so much, but we are excited for even more for this next chapter! To Tennessee we return!

 p.s. Anyone want to watch my kids while I paint or let me store stuff in their garage while we stage our house?!?!?  Moving with kids is no freaking joke!

Advocating

I have been working on this post since long before Charlottesville. A serious case of writer’s block and being incredibly busy during summer left me without the ability to formulate coherent and relevant words, though. I haven’t written since May. When you have the intention of producing inspiring and quality writing once a month, with three children at home, one of which has extra needs and the other being a baby, you realize quickly you have bitten off more than you can chew. But then Charlottesville happened, and I need to respond, because I hate being a white person when I see stuff like that. It’s humiliating and divisive and makes the people I see every day wonder if they are safe with me. It is so far from what I think or believe or feel that I NEED to be sure to separate myself from it. More than that, WE need to protect the people in harm’s way – because this crap is real and it is scary.

Additionally, I only want to provide you with, in the words of George Jung, “Disco shit.” Because I am more than capable of putting something out every month to get clicks and likes and stroke my little hobby writer heart, but the truth is, that’s not what I am doing here. I want to write to make you think. To heal your heart. To build camaraderie and community. Not just a fluff thing I threw together right before my kids went to bed because I need a few more likes on my facebook page – although those are always nice. As a fat woman trying to exist in a place of self-acceptance and happiness, there will always be experiences to write about or meanness to shine a light on. I don’t need to beat a dead horse. I do, however, feel a strong need to inspire change. And I am trying that in the sphere I exist in.

Fat mom’s, most of which are white, are my wheelhouse. I know you. I am you.

I know what you may be thinking... “ANOTHER thing that is going to tell me how racist I am... I’m not racist!!!”

I don’t think you are overtly racist. At least, I hope you aren’t. I think most of my readers are people who hold doors for people, regardless of skin tone. Who think children of color are precious and just as full of potential to change this world as their own. Who want to do the right thing and love people. We talk to people in line at the store and sit with the people who are alone at tables.

Am I speaking your language now? You can be a good person that has benefited from a racist system. It doesn’t make you lazy or scheming. It doesn’t make you hooded and hateful. And it certainly doesn’t mean you haven’t worked hard. But, denying that you benefited at all is ignorant at the very least, and frankly, a privilege that shouldn’t be ignored.

See. As a fat woman with a southern drawl, I have been marginalized. Not nearly as harshly or frequently as other groups of people, but marginalized none the less. People have assumed things about me – incorrectly – for most of my life. Those assumptions change with my waistline. I have been able to grow empathy for other marginalized groups because I, too, have been gawked at in a store. I have been spoken down to despite being educated.  People have assumed I am lazy. Or stupid. Or incapable. Or just plain ‘ole not as good as them. To society, the hard things in my life are a direct result of my own actions – because if I’m fat I must creating my hardships.

I have been the odd man out for a long time. And, despite that being hard and heartbreaking, I am so thankful for the perspective I have grown.

Because while I have never been a person of color, or a member of the LGBTQ community, or a religious minority (well, I was in a cult for a while, but that’s for a different day), I have been a fat woman in a society that created barriers, expectations, and standards that I simply don’t meet. They drew a box that I don’t fit in – then villainized me for it. They left me, and people like me, out of the equation.

Let me be clear I am not equating my experience with my friends that are beautiful shades of brown. Or my loved ones that fight to love openly. Or those scared to worship freely.

The thing about me that incurs the judgement can be changed. I could reduce my calories. I could sweat. I could build my life around shrinking my body. Grow my willpower through resisting delicious temptations. I could stop cooking with butter. I could do all the things to make my body acceptable.  I can become what society wants me to be; it’s an option for me. If I would just give into the voice that is desperate for me to feel perpetually weak and tired from intentional starvation. If I could just ignore the facets of my life that bring me joy to spend endless hours in the gym. Yes, I could easily lose weight and be welcomed into the box that I have been left out of... Inclusion is still an option for me.

But it seems to be a non-option for folks who look, love, or worship “differently.” My black friends can’t turn light. My gay friends can’t turn straight. And my friends that aren’t Christian shouldn’t have to change just to feel safe.

So, here is my small stand. My attempt to effect change. I will not enter any box until the sweet black woman I met in the parking lot at school the other day can, too. I will not step into a box where my Islamic friend from high school is afraid for her daughter or parents. I will not step into a box where my loved one born in the wrong body fears peeing in a public restroom.

Take your box and shove it. The truth is, anyone holding the idea that we don’t all have the right to happiness exists is a  part of a dying breed. There are more of us teaching our kids that “acceptance” of our friends that are marginalized really means protecting them. Uplifting them. It is work – not passive.

To make this simple, one cannot say, “I believe in body positivity” and NOT support the cause of equal rights for ALL. I cannot say, “it’s unfair for clothing stores to not carry cute clothes for me” while ignoring overt racial inequality. I cannot truly advocate for a recognition of the impact of societal regulation of women’s bodies while people in this country are scared for their children to play outside. It makes no sense to say “I should be accepted as I am” and not fight for others to be accepted as they are.

As my daddy would say, “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander!”

So. Here it is. A promise to my readers and friends that have lived a different life from me. I have your back.  You are safe with me. If I see something wrong, I will do what I can to fix it. I will protect your children with same ferocity with which I protect my own. I will use my votes and my dollars to keep people in power who promise the same to you and yours. I will march.

And, perhaps most importantly, I will not deny the privilege it is to be white – even while fat.

It's Literally Just Gravity

Weight, scientifically defined, is simply the force of gravity exerted on an object. How much effort does it take the Earth to keep your feet on the ground. To express that numerically, you’ll need to open your calculator and google the equation because I’m not in the mood to teach a science class.

People stand on scales every day to measure how much gravity is holding them down. Sometimes two different scales, used merely seconds apart from each other, yield completely different numbers. One scale might say you are using more or less gravity than another scale. Gravity usage can even be measured differently; some folks use kilos and here - in the good ‘ole U.S. of A - we use pounds.

Somehow though, as a society, we have managed to take this scientific measure of gravitational pull and turn it into a measure of self-worth. A tool by which we assign value to others. Instead of being happy that we are grounded and alive, a lot of times, depending on what number we get when we measure our gravity usage, and what others think of our gravity usage, we can experience a myriad of feelings. Happy. Sad. Proud. Embarrassed. Confused. Relieved. Discouraged. Reassured.

But honestly, shouldn’t we just be happy we’re not floating off into space? Shouldn’t we be happy that gravity is not a finite resource? There is plenty of gravity to go around!

But alas, weight loss is a multibillion dollar industry. Children, in particular little girls, are driven to eating disorders by unachievable media depictions of how bodies are "supposed" to look. Just as recently as this week, I even read a comment by an ignorant blogger who thinks the only thing a woman needs to be attractive is to “be thin and have long hair.” I neither have long hair nor am thin. I was also emailed by someone who read one of my blog post asking me why I am so angry, then assuming my anger is frustration with my own “inability” to lose weight. Like the "Madeline" books, I simply say, "poo-poo!"

By any means, we have allowed the world to convince us that making assumptions about the characters of anyone who uses more gravity (or is different in just about any way, really.) That  being even a little bit fat means you are unworthy of all things this life offers, so it's ok to be unkind or cruel or unreasonable. As a fat mom, often times those judgements do not rest with me, but extend to my kids and our family as a whole.

Yikes.

Truthfully, I bought into this for a long time. Obsessing about what the scale says, and equating it to what I was worthy of. Worried someone might know my jeans are somewhere between a 14 and an 18, and usually made of stretchy material. Over the last year, I have gone back and forth on how I feel about my body and the number that measures the pull of gravity on it. One day, I would appreciate what I am able to do with my body; that I am healthy and strong, and that I feel good. Another day, I would be saddened that I jiggle when I laugh and have to buy clothes bigger than many stores carry. One thing that has remained consistent, is that others typically view me negatively initially. I usually have to prove to folks that I am a good and decent soul before my kids are invited to play. I have to prove  that we are clean, healthy, and honest... I have to prove these things in a way that I don't often see my thinner counterparts don't have to.

For a long time, I have believed that I am not worthy of the beauty in my life because of my weight; because I kept having to prove things. Dating back to even elementary school, I remember feeling lucky to even have friends. Never mind that I am hilarious and kind. Never mind that I am smart and selfless. Never mind that I am reliable and honest… I felt lucky because I had people willing to be around me even though my body took up more space than theirs.

This feeling of being “lucky” has persisted into my adult life. I have a handsome husband, who earns a good living and worships only God and the ground I walk on. I have three gorgeous, healthy kids, that light my soul on fire with happiness and love. I have gotten to travel parts of the world that others only dream about. I have a comfortable home and even Disney season passes. I have all the things I could ever need, and most of the things I want. And I have wasted several years buying into the notion that I don’t deserve any of it because I am fat.

For the last year, I have been doing a lot of soul searching. Trying to define my worth and value so I can feel free.

It wasn’t luck that made this life for me. It was hard work paying off. It was honesty and love in the moments where hate or dishonesty would have been easier. It was doing hard things when no one was looking. Simply put, I am learning that I, in fact, deserve this life I have worked for, even though I am fat.

I have lived most my life at least a little bit fat. I have also lived most my life trying to lose the weight. I have suffered from an eating disorder and I have worked out until I passed out. I have counted calories and run holes in shoes in an effort to use less gravity. But  no matter what I have done, I have always taken up more space. Because of this, I have not only carried extra weight, but I have also carried the heavy judgements of others. Especially as a mother, I’ve noticed my parenting under a microscope that focuses with a weight based lens.

I have come up with a small list of some common assumptions made about parents who are overweight. I am also going to provide corrections...

1.      I feed my children junk. This is exceptionally funny to me! My kids are actually really healthy eaters. My oldest could live on avocados and raspberries, and my son is a moderately picky 3 year old. The baby, well, she still subsides mostly on breastmilk, because The Fat Mom Does Breastfeed. They get a fresh fruit and vegetable at every meal. My kids help in the kitchen, too. They cook and clean up with me quite often... We don’t drink juice, except for family breakfast on Saturday. We eat every meal at home at the dinner table, together as a family... To assume that because I am fat that my kids are doomed to a life of fast or processed food, gobbled down while we watch TV, is narrow minded and ignorant on any soul sad enough to make such a harsh, and unfounded, judgement.

2.      I don’t play with my kids. I jump on the trampoline. I swim. I play hide and seek. We do artwork, schoolwork, and read books. I have scaled the play structures at the park. I get on the floor a lot to roll around and wrestle. My kids have pretty restricted screen time compared to a lot of their peers; anyone with kids knows that not using a screen means you have to be an involved parent, and I am. Very much so.

3.      I am not smart. I have an accent. It gets pretty thick when I am getting after my kids. The combination of this accent and my wide ass tends to make others assume I am uneducated. To go further, that I am not smart. I am both very educated and very smart. People are of course welcome to disagree with that, but I have three degrees (one of which is a B.S. in Nutrition) and a keen ability to see a bigger picture that would classify my as such. I also took a bunch of AP classes in high school... so... yeah... still hanging onto that one.

4.      My marriage is without passion. I am going to take the high road with this because I don’t want to scare readers off with my third post. There will, at some point in the future, be a post that addresses fat intimacy, because despite what the media shows us, fat sex is a thing that really happens. In this house, it happens a lot. (Clutch.Those.Pearls.)

5.      I am only working out to lose weight. I love the gym. As a matter of fact, just this morning I got to go back after a two month break (my old gym closed and I had to wait for the new gym to open the childcare area...) and I remembered how much I love sweating and being strong. I am healthy. Not that it would make a difference if I wasn’t, but I am. I am not working out to lose weight. I am working out to take care of my body... Still, others who work out at the same time as me tend to address me as an inferior because my body size.

6.      I am lazy. I addressed this a little in my Instagram post. Lazy is the most common assumption made about people who are overweight. When you add being a parent to that mix – well – the judgments extend to your kids, and that’s just not cool. I can run circles around a lot of folks. For anyone who disagrees, I ask them to spend a day with me. From sun up to sun down. Be the parent I am. Be the wife and friend and citizen I am... then have the audacity to call me lazy...

I am inclined to address that I am lucky enough to be quick enough to counter the harsh criticisms, backhanded compliments, and ignorant comments I have received.  It is upsetting to others that I am no longer going to berate and disrespect myself until my body fits the societal depiction of what deserves the life and love I have. I am pretty great.

Since body positivity is a new concept in society, I am inviting anyone who has ever reduced their contributions in their own life to “luck” based on the assumptions of others, to follow along with me. There is no end to this. I am not working towards an after; I am simply living. And I hope you are doing the same.

Family: The good, the bad, and the ugly.

I have a family. I am actually part of three different ones. There is the one that I came from – my parents and siblings. The one I married into – my husband’s kinfolk. And the one that I have made with Jason – us and our babies.  Before I write this, I want to preface it - because I do love a good preface:

I know that, through good sense or terrible misfortune, not everyone has a group of people to call family. I know that I am lucky to no end to be a part of 3 different ones. I know the following post is one that comes from a place of privilege. All the same, my experience with family has spanned really good, kinda bad, and stupid ugly.

Second preface - I’m also not gonna define family for you. Some folks consider their best friend from college to be a sister and the old man next door to be like a grandpa. Who am I to say they aren’t? It’s your call who your family is. Some families are unicorns on chocolate clouds. Some are gum on the bottom of a shoe. Traditional or not, most of us have a combination of both and everything in between.

My preface is complete.

So what does family have to do with me being fat? Or vice versa? What is the correlation between family, body positivity, self-exploration, and learning to love myself?

UHM – JUST EVERYTHING.

Here’s the thing. Family plays a huge role in how we learn to perceive ourselves. When society treats you like shit for being different in any way, it’s family that either helps you form resilience in the way you feel about yourself, or they can reaffirm the messages you are getting from everywhere else. Basically, it’s your family that can pick you up or kick you when you are down.

See? Family has EVERYTHING to do with body positivity.

Let’s discuss my body-image trauma’s, shall we?

As a child, I was chubby, but not obese. I played outside all the time, was a gymnast, and on the jump rope team at school. But Kool-Aid with extra sugar was the drink of choice in our house, and Friday pizza was a ritual, so math and genetics laid rightful claim to the space where there was never to be a thigh gap.

2nd Grade Business Casual

My weight created hard situations, but I persevered, because that’s who I am. I made good grades. I had friends. Despite being made very well aware of my weight, I never let it stop me from getting out there or achieving my goals. However, I did endure my fair share of bullying. From the humiliation of having my weight announced aloud in front of my gym class in the 6^th grade (was privacy not a thing in the 90’s?), to having a swim coach ask me, “my god what are you eating to be so big?”, I learned very early and hard that being fat – even thought I was an awesome kid - was unacceptable.

Side bar: Who remembers the public humiliation of the “Presidential Fitness Test?” AKA – let’s see who has and hasn’t hit puberty yet based on how uncomfortable they are while they run a timed mile in an uncomfortable bra with new boobs... That stuff was traumatizing

Anyhow, when I was dubbed with the lovely nickname of “Gravy” by a classmate named Don Brown who had a rat tail that went all the way down his back, I discovered my short temper. I landed myself in the hot seat after I busted his nose with a dodgeball on purpose while screaming at him that he was, in fact, an “asshole.” I SWEAR I WAS A GOOD KID. I simply reached my limit with being tormented. When I got home though, I was not comforted and or told, “good job for defending yourself” or “you are a great kid and you can always come to me.” Nope. Despite my otherwise glowing track record for behavior, grades, etc., I was severely reprimanded for getting into trouble at all. To my tearful protestations, I can still hear, clear as day, my mother saying, “if you don’t want them to tease you, Missy, then lose weight.”

And that is when I learned the sad truth; being fat precludes you from being understood or being extended grace or mercy. Even occasionally from those who love, or are supposed to love you.

There are lots of mean and nasty soundbites that run through my head in my mother’s voice. She’s not a bad woman; I turned out pretty great. But I am not sure, nor will I ever be sure, about how much of my character is a result of the parenting I received and how much of my character is in spite of the parenting I received. It just took me several years of being loved unconditionally by husband for me to learn what being loved felt like. Then I realized I needed to love myself as much as he does, so here we are... Only then did I realize the role the family I grew up with played in my development of anxiety, people pleasing, and an eating disorder.

My mom and I on my wedding day. I don't hate her... just some of the things she says.

Oh, yes... my eating disorder. Let me introduce you, readers, to one of the big skeletons in my closet... Meet my restrictive eating pattern, better known as anorexia. “But she’s fat! She can’t have an eating disorder!” I can. And I do. Eating disorders sufferers are not always severely underweight. Educate yourselves, please. An eating disorder is a coping mechanism which people use to deal with various trauma and emotions. In times of stress, sadness, anger, or frustration, my brain likes to tell me that everyone in my life would be happier, healthier, and better off if I stop eating. So I stop eating until my brain shuts off for a bit. Why? Well, because I have been told my entire life that any problem I have would go away if I wasn’t fat. “Healthy mindset Melissa” knows these things are silly and untrue, but 16 year old Melissa who felt rejected, misunderstood, different, and alone, found solace and comfort in the hollow grumblings of a deprived stomach. Hell, 32 year old Melissa still finds satisfaction in not eating when other people are... It will be a battle I fight my entire life.

Moving on. Don’t feel bad for me. There are a lot of people who had much worse childhoods. Honestly, a little emotional abuse can’t keep me down. My life still turned out pretty damn great.

The great part of family is where Jason and my siblings comes in. My husband is the cream of the crop. He has loved every inch of my mind, body, and soul through marriage, grad school, babies, career obstacles, faith changes, and family challenges. He has rescued me from dark places, and I have gotten to return the favor. We’re a team in all we do. My siblings are the people that I laugh hardest and talk longest with. We know what our lives were really like, and we are proud of what each other has accomplished. We don't even pull each others hair anymore...

Me and Jason before kids

My siblings and I around '88

This is the part of the post where I tell any fat people that finding love, real unconditional love, doesn’t require you to change one bit. You can be loved the way you are. And, you deserve to be loved the way you are. Sometimes you find that love in family, friends, or a romantic partner. The first time I can remember being loved honestly and openly was with Jason. To be open to the idea that I was deserving of more than what I had been told I was was difficult for me. I was failing miserably at loving myself; I still treated myself horribly, but I was trying to be open. And then he was there. 

And so was his family.

Deep breath.

My husband comes from a long line of good people. But the truth is, his immediate family hasn’t always, and still may not, like me. My weight, and the weights of random strangers, other family members, acquaintances, and even their own weights, are often topics of conversation. There is no question that my husband’s immediate family believes thin = better and it disappointed them when he chose me to be his bride.

We’ve been married 8.5 years and have 3 children, but I still feel like an outsider, walking on eggshells, when my husband’s immediate family is together, because I believe happy = better. Historically, I have been accused of controlling him, driving a wedge between him and his family, derailing and ruining his life, tricking him into children, and of course, being lazy and fat. And I am still not sure what I did that set the chain in motion... I am not sure I ever will. But the damage is something that we are cautiously repairing with time, controlled exposure, and boundaries.

These interactions with his family hurt. Bad. And relapsed a two year battle with my eating disorder that had been put to bed for a solid four years. Here I had people who had known Jason a lot longer than me evaluating what we had and deciding that the unconditional love he brought to me was unwarranted and undeserved simply because they saw *fat* before they saw *me*. It was a sad time in our marriage; the only sad time really. I would often tell him how he deserved so much better, and that he and the kids should leave me and find someone beautiful and thin; someone his family could love. I pushed him away and shut him out. I let the emptiness of my stomach convince me that he could never have loved me anyways. That I was a terrible person now that he was stuck with me because I had his children. Basically, those long term tummy grumblings wanted me to believe I didn’t deserve how hard he loved me.

What was most hurtful was knowing there were regular conversations happening about me regarding my weight, with no regard for my emotional state. I had delivered two healthy, happy kids, finished grad school, and worked full time for most of that. It took nearly 1.5 years of limited/no contact and therapy for me to recover from knowing my husband’s brother and father carried on conversations about our life, my body, and my character. It broke my heart and I am not sure I will ever be comfortable enough with these people I am supposed to call family to let my guard down.

But, I persevered through a mom who wasn’t emotionally keyed into motherhood. I persevered through Don Brown in calling me ‘Gravy.’ And I will persevere through in-laws and all that entails. The thing is, I might get down for the count, but I’m never out. I might be fat, but I don’t quit.

So, let’s talk about the really good parts of family. Can we? Because these good parts have more than made up for so many of the not so good ones! I have three siblings that are incredible people. We hated each other in childhood, but we have formed adult friendships that are deep and strong. I have friends that I consider sisters; that have cried with me over dark times, laughed with in the good times, and grown with in the hard times. Also, I have Jason. Have I mentioned that he is the love of my life?!?!? Yes?

The good stuff.

My siblings around '07

But, for me, the best part of family, is being a mother.  Hence, The Fat Mom. This is where the words are hard to find because it is a feeling I genuinely cannot describe. I know not everyone can/will/wants to be a mom, and that is cool. It’s just my favorite of all the hats I get to wear. I get to help three people know they are valuable just as they are. I get to tell them that their bodies, and the bodies of others, are simply houses for hearts that feel and love, and need goodness and love in return. I get to show them that other people don’t get to have a say in the way they feel about themselves; that they can do anything, and that they don’t have to be the best at everything. I get to be the one that tells them that the bullies are wrong; that they are beautiful, capable, and kind.

After years of poor family relationships having such a negative impact on my body image, I am excited that I get to change the world through these little people.

Family is hard sometimes. The thing that makes it family is that you can’t get rid of them. I have been hurt, yes. And some of you reading may think that these people I am related to are horrible; they aren’t. Insufferable, maybe, but not bad. And I have a choice to either cut them out and preserve my

self, or I can keep fighting to change the perception of what it means to be fat. So, I’ll keep fighting and teaching and loving... it’s all I can do. Until the world is changed, I'll be here, smiling and laughing my happy days with the people who aren't afraid to love all of me.

The Chair and This Blog

At the risk of sounding vain, several people have indicated to me that they would like to see more of my writing. I also find writing about things I find important to be cathartic. The literary release keeps me from assaulting strangers who either don’t know better or don’t want to know better, and therefore display less than savory behaviors. So here we are. I am writing with the intention and hope that an audience reads.

Over the last month, I have worked on an introductory post for this new blog. While that original post is beautiful and meaningful, it’s not what I am going to use to present this new project to you. You’ll get it at some point, either dissected and used as Frankenstein parts of other posts, or it’ll be shown in its entirety... we shall see. But last weekend I had an experience too good not to share. It was so perfectly timed I felt as though the Universe herself was saying, “Here… use this, please! I believe in you!”  

To preface - I write about what I care about, and while I care about a lot of things, the object of my most recent nagging obsessions - that’s been just oozing out into nearly all of my Instagram captions over the last year - is self-acceptance and body positivity. It has been pounding on the doors of my brain and I want to share the thoughts and my journey in body positivity, with you.  In December of 2015, I made a new year’s resolution to not avoid my own reflection. Since then, have been learning lessons about accepting who I am left and right. At some point, I will post that original post, but to introduce this blog to you, I want to tell you a story about what happened to me last weekend.

My daughter goes to a fairly progressive school. They use a method of interacting with the children called Conscious Discipline. Google it because it can change the dynamic you have with your kids, especially if they are whiny or combative! In an effort to provide children with consistency and support to become their best selves, the school offers seminars covering how to implement Conscious Discipline in your home, free of charge.

See? Progressive. We love it.

Since we missed the seminars the school offered in the fall, we decided to catch the last one before the school year is over. It is divided up into three classes that are two hours each instead of the longer classes that meet fewer times. It is perfect for us; and apparently every other family that didn’t want to attend the longer classes in the fall. See, my mom can sit with our kids for about two hours before she is on the verge of a breakdown, so meeting for two hours three times over a couple of months, is much more manageable than meeting for 3+ hours one time. You with me?

We were running a few minutes behind, and we rushed into the meeting shortly after it had begun. As we signed in, I scoured the relatively full auditorium for anyone I might recognize from my sporadic PTA attendance. I spot a few people I know, but there are no open seats near them. So we scoot about halfway up the isle where there is a completely empty row on the left side of the room. There are about 40 people in attendance, but the atmosphere is warm and open; people are chatty and welcoming despite the speaker having already started.

Then I sat down.

I went from standing to being laid out on the floor in the literal blink of an eye. The room went from warm and welcoming, to silent and void of oxygen. Initially, I was confused about what had happened. But, as the speaker started asking those nearby to check on me, and a crowd of people gathered, I realized what had happened:

I had broken a chair.

As a woman who weighs well over 200 pounds (I KNOW! Clutch your pearls, ladies and gents, because I am gonna tell you my actual weight in a few paragraphs! And my jeans size!) this could be humiliating. For thinner folks, the public assumption in a situation like this is automatically that the chair must have been faulty. When you are fat, even if it’s just a little bit fat, the assumption shifts, and you are viewed as capable of collapsing a handcrafted steel reinforced chair easily with the weight of your ass. To clarify, this was an old rusted flimsy folding chair that I would not have sat in had I arrived on time and not been rushed!

As I sat up from my super graceful descent, my manic inner dialogue went something like this:

“Ow, my head. Is my leg bleeding?  Is there someone fatter than me in one of these chairs? Am I really the fattest mom here? Crap, I tore my leggings! Nope! She is fatter than me! I should wink at her. Where did my pen go? It was my good pen! They are all looking at me, quick make a joke so they stop looking!”

So, because I am insanely charming, with quick wit, I compose myself and loudly announce, “I just wanted to let everyone know that I am here!” Then I mouthed and motioned for the speaker to continue.

The truth is, though, as I shooed away people trying to help, I was actually hurt. I have a 2-inch gash on my leg that bled throughout the seminar, and I hit my head hard enough to leave a nice sized goose egg and bruise. But because I am larger than most people, and have been my whole life, I get very uncomfortable in settings where people stare at me. I am conditioned to assume they are thinking the worst of me, because historically, the judgement placed upon people like myself at times like this is:

IF I WASN’T SO FAT *IT WOULDN’T HAVE HAPPENED.

[*It is often whatever negative situation has befallen said fat person. For example, “Clothes would fit if you weren’t so fat.” “Boys would like you, if you weren’t so fat.” “You could have gotten that job, if you weren’t so fat.”]

You follow?

Within 45 seconds, I knew I could not appear to be injured despite being so. There could be no weakness displayed on my part. It’s always been my defense mechanism to protect me from ridicule – pretending I’m indestructible. Being funny. And being smart. And ALWAYS being one step ahead.

What was interesting about this whole situation is that is was a direct challenge to the positive vibes I have been preaching lately. I traded my fitspo for body positivity on Instagram. I am no longer telling my kids that fat is a bad word – because it’s not (that is an entirely different post.) I have been taking time for myself, doing things I have long neglected like tweezing my eyebrows and buying new jeans. I make a point of looking in the mirror every day and I taking pictures with my kids.

So, why, when I am doing “all the right things” did I still shun the help when I needed it? Why was I afraid of the perceptions people would have if I had said the chair was broken? Why did I let it become a thing about my weight?

I’ll tell you why. Because, despite being incredibly inspired by beautiful and diverse women who are body positivity gurus on social media, and being an incredibly loved woman, I am still only at the beginning of a journey to love myself. Undoing 32 years of both illicit bullying and less intentional body shaming takes time. And effort. And forgiveness. And help.

The thing is, most of you have something about yourselves that makes you feel like I do about being fat. This blog is about embracing all the things that make people feel different, overlooked, or left out, not just weight.

So, I am putting my 250-pound self out there, in my size 16/18 jeggings, for all of us. To reclaim the life I have let slip away from me for fear of persecution. This is what The Fat Mom Does is about:

This blog will be my journey in doing the things I have been waiting to do until I lost weight – Because I am no longer waiting for my after picture.

This blog will be an account of me contributing all that I have held back for fear that I would be ridiculed –
Because I am smart, kind, and hilarious, and the world needs me right now, in the body I have.

This blog will be the story of me accepting the role I have played in building the beautiful life I get to live –
Because I am not simply lucky; I have earned every bit of this.

Because this fat mom wants a better world for any person that has ever felt different or left out or looked over.

Because if the worst thing someone has to come at me with is some variation of "You’re fat” then I must be doing a pretty damn good job of living a good life.

Because my kids, your kids, OUR KIDS need to see adults giving all they have, so they know they can give it all they have, too.

I hope you follow along with me.