Fat Chance (7 page)

I
t will come as no surprise to you that I never wore a crown. (Although I
did
do quite well in the “interview” portion, thank you very much.) But I took home a prize of another kind from those odd, odd pageant days: my wonderful husband Mike.

Mike was perhaps the only person in that pageant audience who saw more in me than what meets the eye. We were friends for five years, and although I had a terrific crush on him, my self-defeating ways caused me to keep that under wraps. Instead, when he confided in me as his friend that he was interested in one of the other “pageant girls” we knew, I’d enthusiastically prod him to ask her out. “Oh, she’s gorgeous!” I’d rave. “You should date her!”

At my recommendation, he usually did. And as each girl came into his life and then left, I died another death. When would it be my turn?

When longing finally turned into reality and reality eventually produced a stunning engagement ring, I experienced a euphoria I had never previously known. At our engagement party, a mutual friend nodded toward me and said to her date, “She looks like a Mike Hadden wife.” I soared on her words for hours. I knew the incredible women Mike had dated. And I was elated to be the last one among them.

Although I wasn’t thin when Mike and I got engaged, I was the thinnest I’d ever been. Still, something in me said I was fat. As soon as we got married, I allowed the self-fulfilling prophecy to run its course, gaining pounds, it seemed, by the hour.

Just as quickly as I put back on the weight, Mike put on the role of my enabler. I didn’t weigh myself very often, but I always knew when I had gained a lot of weight because my clothes no longer would fit. My dismay over my returning obesity became a constant topic of conversation between Mike and me, and when he just couldn’t take my moaning and groaning any longer, he would come home from work with a treat. Mike’s treats were always the best, because he knew exactly what I liked. Nachos, southwestern eggrolls from Chili’s, a blooming onion from Outback, gooey chocolate cake—these always did the trick.

That is, until I gained even more weight and grew even more despondent about the situation I was in.

Eventually the cycle would veer into such dark places that I’d refuse to go out with Mike.

“I can’t fit into anything I own!” I’d whine. The next day I’d walk into our bedroom to find eight new pairs of pants on the bed.

Mike’s enabling behavior was not helpful, but it was clearly motivated by love. He craved a normal, happy wife and a normal, happy home. It devastates me now to know that because of me, he had neither. In his eternal defense, Mike never once told me that I looked fat, that I
was
fat or that I needed to lose weight. But he is a man. To have thought that my obesity had no effect on him would be lunacy. Throughout the course of our early married life, and out of respect for the highly visual part of a man’s needs and wants, I would try to diet my way back into
clothes that had once fit. But as soon as I made it to my goal weight and people acknowledged my progress, I’d congratulate myself with my good old friend: food. Soon enough, those pounds I had lost would find their way right back to me.

Being fat caused dysfunction in other areas of our marriage too. Like most newlywed couples, Mike and I enjoyed a great vitality—and frequency!—in our sex life. Day or night, tired or not, we looked forward to sharing intimacy with each other. In our first apartment, the closet doors of our master bedroom boasted full-length mirrors. And although this didn’t bother me at first, as I grew in size, I also grew increasingly uncomfortable with catching glimpses of myself in those mirrors. The puckers on my large thighs, the rolls of flesh around my belly, the droopy skin along the back of my arms—I couldn’t bear to see these things, and I insisted that Mike not see them either.

Eventually I swapped the freedom I’d enjoyed for a finicky list of demands. First, there would be no sex during daylight hours. Second, when there was sex at night, all lights must be turned off. Third, since I could no longer fit into my lingerie, all expectations for sexy attire must be squelched at once. Fourth, Mike must initiate all sexual encounters. After all, what if one day I gained the pound that finally thrust Mike over the edge and he was no longer interested in me in “that” way? I refused to risk rejection on that level.

Given the heightened insanity I catalyzed during that season of life, it’s something of a miracle that Noah was conceived. But six months before my twenty-ninth birthday, Mike and I welcomed our first baby into the world.

Looking back, I’m stung by the reality of how my food addiction would affect Noah in his early childhood. Any reasonable person would be shocked to see a drug addict taking her child into the crack house with her. You and I would both look down on an alcoholic who loaded her child into the car just before taking a spin fully drunk. But somehow it was lost on me that I was doing the very same thing. I was enveloping Noah in my addiction, without any regard for his life. What I ate is what he ate. My sedentary life was his sedentary life. All of my bad choices were his bad choices, simply because he was my son. My six fast-food meals a week became his fast-food habit too. My couch-potato ways became his lethargy as well.

What kind of mother would do this? It’s not the mom I wanted to be.

The last chapter of the book of Proverbs paints a beautiful portrait of what a wife and mother ought to look like. “A good woman is hard to find, and worth far more than diamonds,”
The Message
paraphrase says. “Her husband trusts her without reserve, and never has reason to regret it. Never spiteful, she treats him generously all her life long. She shops around for the best yarns and cottons, and enjoys knitting and sewing. She’s like a trading ship that sails to faraway places and brings back exotic surprises. She’s up before dawn, preparing breakfast for her family and organizing her day. She looks over a field and buys it, then, with money she’s put aside, plants a garden. First thing in the morning, she dresses for work, rolls up her sleeves, eager to get started. She senses the worth of her work, is in no hurry to call it quits for the day.

“She’s skilled in the crafts of home and hearth, diligent in homemaking. She’s quick to assist anyone in need, reaches out to help the poor. She doesn’t worry about her family when it snows; their winter clothes are all mended and ready to wear.

“She makes her own clothing, and dresses in colorful linens and silks. Her husband is greatly respected when he deliberates with the city fathers. She designs gowns and sells them, brings the sweaters she knits to the dress shops. Her clothes are well-made and elegant, and she always faces tomorrow with a smile. When she speaks she has something worthwhile to say, and she always says it kindly. She keeps an eye on everyone in her household, and keeps them all busy and productive.

“Her children respect and bless her; her husband joins in with words of praise: ‘Many women have done wonderful things, but you’ve outclassed them all!’ Charm can mislead and beauty soon fades. The woman to be admired and praised is the woman who lives in the Fear-of-God. Give her everything she deserves! Festoon her life with praises!”
¹

Now, I don’t know what
you
take away from those verses, but I’m thinking that any woman lauded in Scripture for making breakfast for her family was probably making more than a Krispy Kreme stop. Any woman who planted a vegetable garden probably had kids who actually knew what fresh broccoli
tasted like. Any woman who was eager to roll up her sleeves and work in the morning … well, the old version of me wouldn’t know
what
to make of that. Any woman who mended clothes obviously wasn’t outgrowing her pants every six weeks. And any woman who always said “worthwhile” things clearly didn’t bemoan her big butt.

Even as I read that passage again now, the stark contrast between the wife and mom I chose to be for so many years and the woman portrayed in these verses is almost too much to take in. How completely I craved the ambition, the motivation, the diligence of that woman!

I knew I had my husband’s and son’s unwavering love. How desperately I desired to gain their respect. Thankfully, God knew those deep, deep desires of my heart. And as I’d learn soon enough, he had paved the path to my becoming a woman just like the one I admired.

T
he loss—on so many levels—of my childhood and then of my womanhood carried with them a common thread. Weaving its way through all of those years was the devastating loss of my peace.

Most obese people I know are people-pleasers at heart. Truly, it is enough of a daily challenge to bear up under the weight of your own insecurity, shame and self-condemnation. The last thing you want to attach to all of that is the disappointment of others.

I practiced my people-pleasing ways early on in my life. When I was still a preteen, and in deference to my mother’s health-fanatic ways, I would eat modest portions at dinner. What she didn’t know, of course, was that her people-pleasing daughter would clear the table and then stuff herself silly with every morsel that remained, in between scrubbing glasses and plates.

Later, during my pageant stint, I would attempt to work out four or five hours a day with fellow contestants so that they would be pleased with my efforts toward weight loss. But upon leaving, I’d sabotage every ounce of progress made by stopping and purchasing a box of Little Debbie cakes that would be devoured well before I got home.

Throughout my entire existence, it seems, I had two lives going. There was the me that others saw, and the me that was truly me. The end-result of my duplicity was inner turmoil that is tough to explain. What is not tough to explain is how God
intended
for life to be lived.

In Genesis, God says that he thought so highly of us that he created us in his own, perfect image. In the book of John, we learn that he has equipped us for lives lived to the fullest. Five chapters later, we are told that we’re capable of a level of contentedness that can actually cause us to
leap
.
²

Acceptance, abundance, joy—this was hardly the life I’d been living.

I’d be shopping at Target with Mike and would catch sight of a friend I hadn’t seen in years, but instead of approaching to say hi, I’d hide behind the clothing rack until I was sure she was gone so that she wouldn’t see how terrible I looked.

I’m an adventure-seeker by nature, but when a friend invited me to skydive with her, I shrunk back and declined for fear that the jumpsuit simply would not fit.

When Mike and I attended Noah’s soccer games, I’d refuse to stand up and cheer because I knew that my arms and my midsection would keep jiggling long after the rest of me had stood still. Worse than that, I denied him the delight of swimming with his buddies because I couldn’t bring myself to go to the neighborhood pool during “normal” hours. I’d wait until late afternoon and watch him swim all alone, while nobody was around to watch big, fat me.

Acceptance, abundance, and joy—knowing who you are in God’s eyes, living out of the fullness of your relationship with him and enjoying the journey every step of the way. To me, these things add up to a life lived from that coveted place called peace. I’m grateful to say that after hundreds of prayers, a year of tears, and buckets of sweat, it’s the place I call home these days.

W
hen I got back from
The
Biggest Loser
campus in August 2007, I felt that in so many ways I had neglected my child. It hadn’t been on purpose, of course, but something about the string of experiences on the show helped me see what a truncated existence I had asked Noah to live. My sedentary lifestyle and my fear of socializing had taken a
terrible toll, and I wanted to do something to make it up to him. So I took him to Disney World, just the two of us.

At the end of an unbelievably fun day of riding on roller coaster seats I hadn’t fit on for decades, Noah and I stood in line for the monorail that would take us back to the parking lot. He was standing behind me in line and didn’t notice much of what unfolded ahead of us, but I surely did. Twenty inches away from me stood a young girl—probably ten or eleven years old—and two adults who appeared to be her parents. As far as I could tell, she wasn’t misbehaving. But she must have said something that didn’t sit right with her father, because the next thing I knew, he cocked his right hand into the air and in one swift
whoosh
slapped the young girl across the face. My jaw dropped just as the mother—with swaddled infant in her arms—stepped quickly between her husband and her daughter. She obviously didn’t want to cause even more of a scene, but the instantaneousness with which she reacted made me wonder if abuse was a pattern for this family.

Before I counted the cost of my own reaction, I caught the father’s eye and said quietly, in a measured tone, “You sorry son of a gun.” Except “gun” wasn’t exactly the noun I chose.

My mother raised me
never
to talk like that, and when the syllables fell out of my face, I just knew Mickey or Minnie or another official character was going to show up and toss my foul mouth right into Disney Jail. But somehow, my anger felt justified. And so I kept going.