“I Hate You, Mommy!”

​I would have to say it was around age three when Sophia first yelled at me that she hated me.  Being so young, she had not learned just how hurtful the word “hate” could be.  I know a lot of women who have gotten upset, practically in tears, when their young toddler spews forth, “I hate you, Mommy!”  For me the tears didn’t come.  I knew she was just mad that I told her “No” for doing something wrong, or for not buying her something.  Was I wrong not to care?  How come I brushed it off so easily?  How come the bridge of emotional stability did not collapse me into tears at the uttering of “I hate you, Mommy!” like with other mothers?

As an adult, I understand how hurtful the word “hate” can be.  I continuously tell Sophia to never say that word, to always replace it with “dislike” or, in certain circumstances, “extremely dislike”.  “Hate” implies bigotry and prejudice.  We can’t hate something anymore, the word has become a swear word, something evil.  

But, I can say without a doubt, I hated my daughter in her infancy.  Only three weeks after she was born, I had racing thoughts through my head on how I could rid myself of her.  I never wanted to hurt her, I just wanted to remove myself from her presence.  I thought over and over again about running away.  Leaving in a car, train, plane or even a Greyhound bus… something that would take me far away where her cries didn’t echo in my head like a Mandrake plant from Harry Potter and the Chamber Of Secrets (See video here).  I pondered hurting myself so that I might have to be in the hospital for weeks or even months.  I even dreamed of being put into a psychiatric hospital (which would occur).  Anything to get me away from her, because my hatred of her was so strong.

Of course I was ill.  

My daughter is my only child.  She is the child I suffered severely from Postpartum Depression and Anxiety with.  She is the child I grew to hate in her first few weeks and I have told her this.  I have sat her down once she reached age eight and explained why Mommy is, well, a bit different.  She had seen my crying outbursts, my running sprees to the bathroom to dry heave, my clawing at my head, the constant rocking back and forth and my 2nd hospitalization.  I didn’t have to go back to the history of my Postpartum days, but I did.  I wanted her to know everything.  I wanted her to know about how an illness can change the way you think.  And I wanted her to know that now, I love her, as I constantly tell her, “to infinity and beyond!” (Thank you Toy Story!)

But when she uttered those words, “I hate you, Mommy!”, it didn’t faze me in the slightest way.  Why?  It was so easy for me to hate her but so hard to believe that she could actually hate me.  Believing that she had innocence on her side at age three.  The moment she said this, I instantly thought of the 7th Heaven episode (Season 2, Episode 9) where Ruthie tells her mother “I hate you” for the first time.  She’s around 4 or 5.  The mother loses it.  She’s crying her eyes out.  She seriously believes her child hated her… and for what, yelling at her for coloring the walls.  It made me wonder if a child so young could actually understand the affects of saying the word “hate”.   But the episode continues to teach us about the connotation of the word “hate” with the story of a WWII Concentration Camp survivor.

I haven’t  thought much of “I hate you, Mommy” since, until someone I know recently was in this situation and because it was the child she suffered from a Postpartum Illness with, she took it more to heart and was deeply upset that that due to their rough first few years, there was indeed still a separation amongst them.  I thought about this.  With all of Sophia’s knowledge of my Mental Illnesses, when she tells me she “hates” me now, does she really mean it?  I’ve been so honest with her that I am sure there will come a time when she really does hate me.  Who is to say she doesn’t now and, in some ways, she has every reason to.  She knows I have actually hated her.  She knows my presence in the first year of her life was more robotic.  She knows she was ignored while we were fostering a child, my Tyler.  She knows I have missed moments in her life because I was stuck shaming myself for what happened with Tyler.  I have hurt her.  I have hurt her so much.  Am I wrong to assume that eventually she will hate me?

“I hate you, Mommy!” has been said to me so many times in Sophia’s almost ten years of life.  It is usually followed an hour or two later with “I love you, Mommy!”.  At what age does that change for us?  At what age does our innocence fade and we learn how hurtful words really can be? 

Finding My Purpose In Life…

For as long as I could remember, I always wanted to be a mother.  I was drawn to my friends’ younger siblings.  I loved to coo at babies I saw.  I even transformed the bottom of my tiny closet into a “crib” for my two baby dolls.  I couldn’t wait to feel that love, a love between a mother and her child, this time from the view of being the Mommy.  At that young age, motherhood was my focus in life and I would be blessed almost two decades later with the birth of my daughter.
At six, with the purchase of my first Lego set (a tiny Viking boat), I suddenly had another desire in life… I wanted to build.  I loved sitting there for hours building Lego sets.  First I would follow the step by step instructions included with the set and then I would let my imagination run wild.  During many trips to see my aunt and uncle, I would admire the houses we would pass, studying details and running through my head how to build them with my Legos.  The building desire soon morphed with my love of houses.  I now wanted to become an architect.

A career was always a desired purpose in life for me.  Watching my mother work, I was brought up with a sense of equality, that a woman could support her family just as much as a man.  A woman’s role was not solely being confined to being a housewife.  I studied hard in college with many overnighters spent hunched over my drafting table drawing (or in some cases snoring with my head on my pillow taking a nap).  I wanted so badly to become a talented architect, rising to the same levels of Frank Lloyd Wright, Le Corbusier and Michael Graves.  I wanted to see designs I created built and enjoyed by people.  I knew that that was my purpose in life… to be a famous architect and a mother.  I would be able to succeed in both.  Nothing could stop me.

At least that is what I thought…

I was well on my way to obtaining all my necessary hours of experience to be able to sit for my exams to become a licensed architect.  With the birth of my daughter, I was sidetracked from this goal while I struggled for almost a year with Severe Postpartum Depression and Anxiety.  When my baby girl reached age 2, I was back on track and was now able to sit for the seven exams that would give me my other purpose.  I once again studied, but was interrupted many times that when I received my results with the word “FAIL” on it, I was not shocked.  Okay, I would detour my plans for a few more years when my daughter was not so dependent on her Mommy.  Still working full time and taking care of her proved a challenge with carving out niches of time to study harder.  Different exam, a few years later, results… FAIL.

I am not happy with the word “fail”.  I am an Alpha that very much strives to give 100% on everything I do.  I sat and thought about this “purpose” in life.  How important was it to me now to see the word “architect” after my name?  Would it increase my salary at the moment?  Would I really be famous?  Is that what I really wanted now?  After many weeks thinking about this and discussing it with my husband, my family and my therapist, I realized that becoming a licensed architect was no longer a purpose in life.

I knew I wanted more though, more than being a Mommy.

I flip-flopped on certain “purposes” for the next few years.  First, I wanted to take my love of nature and become a Park Ranger.  I wanted to teach people about the outdoor world.  I took a certificate course through Penn Foster on Forestry – Wildlife Conservation.  I was fascinated by the things I learned but after researching more, I realized that getting paid to be a Park Ranger was nearly impossible on the East Coast and relocating wasn’t an option.  Next up, I took my love of exercise and decided I would become a Certified Personal Trainer.  Purchasing a Groupon, I did just that.  I barely passed the proctored exam but obtained my certification and although my purpose of owning my own gym and teaching women to love their bodies was lost when I succumbed to another episode of Major Depressive Disorder, I have still kept this certification active.  I realize though, this is not my purpose in life.

With decades of therapy under my belt, I began to play therapist to myself on this topic… What is your purpose in life Stephanie?  What do you want to accomplish?  What in your mind will give meaning to your life?  Answering these questions gave me that awkward puzzled look that you try to prevent your face from making when you are given the question, “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” at an interview.  Luckily, I was not put on the spot sitting in front of an interviewer as it was only me, myself and I.

I analyzed all my aspirations up to then… becoming a mother, creating buildings people needed and could enjoy, helping people enjoy nature, helping people love their bodies and realized that all these aspirations centered around helping or nurturing people.  What could I do with that that would not require going back to school because this lady did not have the money for that.  The light bulb moment happened after a friend of mine published her first book.  I always loved to write since childhood.  Writing was an outlet for me during my Depressive episodes.  I felt that if I wrote about my experiences with Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I would be able to help those people who were too scared to speak up, who needed someone to tell them that they are not alone, that they do not need to see the stigma as a threat.

I started my blog focusing on my 20+ years struggling with these illnesses and then decided to do more.  I began to document my journey for a future book.  I became a Climb Co-Leader and a Warrior Mom Ambassador for Postpartum Progress Inc.  I submitted several articles to Stigma Fighters and The Mighty online.  I have been published in two collaborations focused on Mental Illness, Stigma Fighters Anthology II and A Dark Secret.  In a few years, I hope to have my book published and I hope to become a Certified Peer Specialist.  I have become a Mental Health and Maternal Mental Health Advocate.  

This, this, is my purpose in life.  Helping others.  As I help my daughter with her homework, help a struggling mother find someone who has been through what she has been through, or help others shed the shame of their Mental Illness diagnosis, I know, this is what I was put here to do.

I Had A Son…

I had a son.

When I met him, he was barely 2 1/2 years old with an adjusted age of about eighteen months.  All I saw were his deep dark sienna eyes and his messy brown-black hair.

I had a son.

He was all mine from the first day I saw him anxious to give him a hug as I heard him “read” a book.

I had a son.

Soon after he moved in, scared about this new life, he began not to eat or drink, and worried for him, I began not to eat.

I had a son.

I watched him slowly develop with a curiosity a toddler is supposed to have.  

I had a son.

With each new discovery he made, I grew more love for him and more worry.

I had a son.

In that short time he was with us, we taught him how to eat, play, love.  We taught him family.

I had a son.

And when I left him, I was severely broken, pieces all over the floor.

I had a son.

I loved him so much, I craved to keep my family together, as I slowly killed myself.

I had a son.

And after he left, and the negative comments came from a certain person, my guilt grew… I was told I didn’t love him, I didn’t care for him, I acted selfishly, I ruined everything.

I had a son.

And every morning I wake up with his face in my mind, sad for him leaving, happy he was ours.

I had a son.

And I always think about him.  There is never a day in my mind where his dimpled cheek smile does not appear.

I had a son.

A little boy that looked so much like a certain baby picture of mine, he could’ve truly been birthed by me.

I had a son.

I have celebrated his past two birthdays with a candle lit cupcake and later on tears.

I had a son.

Now he lives with another Mommy and Daddy.  The hardest decision ever made, but the best for him.

I had a son.

Each day I yearn to see him, to hug him, to kiss him.

I had a son.

Often, almost two years later, I am still smelling the clothes he came with.  Inhaling everything about him.

I had a son.

My Tyler Rocco.

*****

I wrote this during a bad day recently.  Crying, full of tears. Shame and blame for Tyler leaving weighed heavily on me.  

When I wrote this, I wasn’t sure whether it was a poem or just a normal piece of writing. Still am not sure.

“When Will You Be Done?!”

I’m sitting in silence rocking slightly back and forth.  I’ve been threatened and my survival instincts are kicking in.  Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.  I am stuck… in my cubicle at work.  My stomach is repulsed by food and if I didn’t force myself not to, I would vomit anything that was in it.  My Anxiety is high.  I want to go home, I want to escape to my room and pull the covers over my head shrinking my existence.

I am being harassed, bothered on a project just given to me that I gladly accepted helping with.  I like to help people.  I tend to be a “people pleaser”.  Suddenly with a question asked by an equal, “When will you be done?!”,  I am spiraled into a whole other time and place, my last office.  Those words constantly asked over and over like a broken record…

“When will you be done?!”

“When will you be done?!”

“When will you be done?!”

Like I have a definitive answer.  Who does?  With these words come the visions of my former employment and then my body becomes restless.  I am quickly agitated and can’t sit still.  I rise, leave my cubicle and circle a couple of laps downstairs returning to my desk.  This has not cured the movement desiring beast in me and I still rock back and forth, my hands clenched in tight fists.

Slowly my body begins to release the tension and the rocking lulls.  I am completely exhausted.  I could sleep if I had a bed.  Still working, I notice I receive an email from another associate:

“When will you be done?!”

I am told in that email that I am to respond to another person with:

“When will you be done?!”

I’m overloaded, overwhelmed to the extreme.  I become restless once again, this time my legs swing back and forth, back and forth.  I respond with an email on when I thought I would be done and why it has taken me two days, two days to do almost a complete set of drawings.  Did I mention I was given this two days ago?!  I am a helpful person but not superwoman.  

Suddenly, I am being reprimanded by the “email equal”.  I am being told that my email was unacceptable and should have never been sent.  I am being made to recall said email and being threatened with the possibility of a higher up finding out.  I am beginning to feel stupid as I still do not know what in the email caused this response as all I did was answer the question:

“When will you be done?!”

There was no foul or condescending language (I know better, my parents did not raise an idiot). There was no “I’m not doing this project anymore!” There was nothing but an explanation on when I would be done and the fact the drawings would then have to be reviewed. 

Other equals are telling me there is nothing wrong with the email and not to worry about it.  That what was said to me was harassment.  I was being bullied.  Here I was trying to teach my daughter not to let kids make fun of her, not to let them bully her, and now I was a victim.  I was a hypocrite.  I was stupid.  I was shameful.  I was back to blaming myself for everything.  All the positives, everything I was complimented on, quickly vacated my head and all that was left was Depressed Stephanie, a part of me that was lying mostly dormant these last few months.  

I am still sitting here, still nauseas, body running on only a single-serve Greek yogurt from breakfast (and it is late afternoon).  I still don’t want to leave my cubicle because I don’t want to see these people.  I don’t want to be required to interact with them, at least for the rest of today.  I am now blank, empty and void listening to the drawings for this project  print. I am usually not affected like this at work but today I am.  I have finished, like I said I would, but the damage done to me is not over.  I will be okay, I always bounce back. 

That One Relative…

We all have that one relative, that one person we are required to love because they are family.  The one who invites themselves over without an invitation.  The one that hoards leftovers to take home without being offered.  And, we deal with them.  We put up with them because they are related to us and amongst their annoyances and bad behavior there is usually some interesting tidbit of knowledge or at the very least, they provide us with some sort of entertainment.
For me, Depression is that relative.  It knocked on my door over twenty years ago and has barely left.

The short hiatus’ I get when it does leave are nice.  Those months of sanity, clarity and peace are things I treasure because I know they won’t last, or at least they haven’t yet.  And just when my nerves have settled  and I have started to breathe deep breaths of relief…

“Knock, knock, I’m back!” Depression has returned.

It is a cruel being.  It tells me lies and convinces me they are true.  It beats me down and still continues when I can’t get up.  It laughs at me.  It mocks me.  For some reason, I have too much respect to tell it to go the f*ck away.  Like with that one relative, I have gone to therapy to try to work out living with this being.  Decades of therapy… different forms of therapy…  It always seems as if I am the one trying to mend this relationship while it continues to laugh away.

I’ve started to drink at times to cope with this relative, a glass of wine here, a Dark & Stormy there (not excessive, just once a day max).  Then I started to medicate (with the aid of a doctor).  Things gradually got better.  I learned to cope with this relative and then it left.  I must have become too boring for them.

Until the other day…

I’ve been feeling off for about three weeks now.  There have been huge moments of anxiety that usually end in me feeling completely exhausted and empty.  This emptiness was just a feeling of blah.  Depression was still gone so there were no feelings of hopelessness or worthlessness.  As the days passed, the blah feeling progressively started to last longer and start earlier each day.  I didn’t really read much into it.  I had lowered my dosage of Lexapro from 20mg to 10mg earlier in the month because I was doing so well.  This was just a detox affect, right?!

Saturday went well.  Spent the day with my daughter and we had a lot of fun.  Dropped her for a sleepover and went on a dinner date with my husband.  Then we decided to watch Night At The Museum 3.  We have seen the other two.  What should have been a humorous movie had me in tears of sadness.  I was crying for Robin Williams.  I was crying, because if you have ever been suicidal, you have an idea of what he must have felt, that desire to rid yourself of all the mental anguish and thinking death is the only way.  I was crying because he took his life and I didn’t.  I didn’t quite understand why all the tears were coming then.  Right after Robin Williams passed, my husband and I did a movie marathon of his movies and watched Mrs. Doubtfire, The Birdcage, Night At The Museum 2.  Nothing, I was fine.  I guess not having watched his movies for a couple of years now triggered the thoughts I once had for myself, the thoughts that wanted to hurt myself, the thoughts that on Saturday that pondered grabbing a scissor again to cut myself, to rid myself of the mental pain that was still present after almost 2 years.

Whoa, wait, what?!  Shit, the relative was back.  I did that infamous eye roll we all do when that relative returns.  Maybe it’s just a bad day.  I would believe that if I wasn’t feeling so off the last few weeks.  As I  cried for Robin Williams, I heard Depression whisper in my ear that I was worthless.  That’s why none of my friends had wanted to hang out with me recently.  I was a pathetic mess, who the heck would want to be near that?!  I cried that because of this it affected my daughter hanging out with her friends. I went off on such a tangent with this, that I might have sent a text or two that actually questioned my sanity.  

Then I cried some more as I stared at Stephanie from 2 years ago as she ziplined through the trees in Ketchikan, Alaska.  Such a strong happy being. Why was it taking so long to get part of her back?!  Looking down to my hands, I noticed I was holding the pillow I made from T’s shirts he grew out of and cried some more.  He was gone because of me, because this relative couldn’t deal with another person.

“See, you don’t deserve your husband and daughter.  You’re such a burden to them.” Depression laughed.

I ended Saturday night passing out from crying.

Sunday started how all my mornings with Depression starts… apologizing.  I apologized to Jimmy for him having to deal with me.  I apologized for being so needy and weird.  I apologized for being the reason Tyler had to leave.  So many “I’m sorrys” came out of my mouth and with it my lucidity.  I feared what might come next.  I was worried what my unwanted relative might do, but I have been there before and I as I stated above, that undesirable relative usually teaches us something.  

So Depression, what have you taught me?

Having you in my life has made me a much more compassionate person.  Although this can affect me in unfavorable ways, I am grateful that I can sympathize with people and try to place myself in their position.  You have made me a better person because of this.  You have made me realize that I truly have what is important in life, life for one, and a great support system that others may not have.  You have made me rise and stand up becoming a Mental Illness Advocate.  You have pushed me to learn more about you and other ways I can survive living with you.  You have made me recognize you in others and be a support for them.  You have helped me rediscover my joy of writing.  You’re not completely evil.  Like that relative, I do have some sort of acceptance for you and maybe, just maybe, you will teach me some more things.

“Yes, Sure, You Were ‘Sick’!”

I’ve heard this so many times.  I am not coughing.  I am not sneezing.  I am not complaining of chills.  I am not home ‘sick’ in the term that I have the flu and need to be in bed.  I would not spread my illness if I came into work.  I would not pass germs that would in turn get you ‘sick’.
But I am sick.

Dictionary.com defines the word ‘sick’ as one who is “afflicted with ill health or disease; ailing.”  Although I am not hacking or vomiting on you, I am in fact sick.  I am afflicted with ill health or disease.  I like to call them hidden diseases.  These mental illnesses, Anxiety and Depression (and at one point PTSD and OCD).  There are further definitions on Dictionary.com that include mental ailments but it shocks me that when a person calls out sick it has to be seen as a ‘real’ ailment to be deemed a ‘real’ sick day and not ‘playing hookie’.  The matter is, when I use a sick day at work, I am sick, but it is my Anxiety and Depression that are center stage.

The last time I took a sick day where I was what is considered sick to a typical person was January of 2014 when I acquired the flu.  For days I was bedridden, sleeping, going through chills alternating with being too hot, running high fevers and completely depleted of all energy.  You know what, those ‘fake’ sick days, my body wants to be bedridden.  I am usually dizzy and nauseas and it is my brain that makes me feel this way, no bacteria or virus I can fault.  My brain, an organ I will live with all my life… not a bacteria that will take up residence for a week.  How can you not call that sick?

Through the years, I have learned to mask first my Depression because I have lived with it for such a long time, more than half my life.  I have just recently perfected the fake smile and faux happy personality when it comes to my Generalized Anxiety.  This little devil has been present in my life for the last decade and I never know when it will go on a nice vacation and I never know when it will return.  Little bugger!  Recently, it has decided to become the dictator of my being.  It took over me a week and a half ago making my body rigid and me mute.  That day was the start to me feeling, well, off.  The work week following that incident, I spent most of my days hiding in my cubicle not wanting to interact with anyone.  Many times I wished I could just go home and hide in my room.  I wanted to be alone.  If I did have interact with my coworkers, I was the smiling funny person I usually am.  All I have to do is put on that fake grin and all of my inner turmoil is hidden.  Viola!  I look perfectly fine.

This past Sunday night I slept awfully.  Even pumped up on .5mg of Ativan and 2mg of Lunesta, my body would not fall asleep.  After watching the 2 hour premiere of Return To Amish because well I had nothing else to do, I decided to try and fall asleep again.  It was 1am.  Luckily, sleep came quick but my body awoke at 5:00am.  Insomnia was back.  When I finally decided to wake up for the day and not continue a fit of tossing and turning in bed in hopes I would fall back asleep it was 6:30am.  I gave in.  Brain, you won.  With a rush of dizziness and nausea, I felt it best to call out sick.

Upon returning to the office the next day, some comments were thrown at me about being ‘sick’.  Sometimes it gets to the point where I feel like the boy who cried wolf.  I have all these physical symptoms but I do not look sick.  I am on day nine of going to bed with such pain in my neck and shoulders because they have been tense all day.  I am highly unmotivated to move and feel out of it.  I don’t quite feel depressed as I do not feel hopeless or worthless, but I do not feel like myself.  Some negative thoughts are returning to me… thoughts where my husband and child deserve better.  I am frequently apologizing to both of them for being so irritable all the time.  “I don’t want to be mean, I am so sorry.”  As I am saying this, I imagine my daughter sitting in therapy in her adult years talking of her mother who snapped at her with anger all the time.  It’s not what I want, but I can’t control it.  Anxiety has taken the reigns.

And then, with the comments and the demons I live with, I begin to wonder if I am imagining these symptoms… maybe I am not really ‘sick’.  This feeling only fuels the craziness I live with… now I am debating with myself if what I feel, mental and physical, is actually real?  Am I just saying this stuff for attention?  I mean, I am the youngest child.  Youngest children usually crave attention, but that was never me.  I also am known to complain a lot, but not about my health.  I have a high pain tolerance and usually wait until the last minute to get help with any ailment.  Still, is this all in my head?  Do I just feel ignored and want to be heard?  

And then I take a step back and breathe.  Stigma.  Damn that stigma.  Just when I think I have broken through its barrier, I am sucked back into the vortex.  This stigma is the reason people do not believe me when I am sick.  I can’t fall victim to it again, it will only hurt me.  This is the reason I share my story all the time.  This is the reason I explain to people what it is like to suffer with a condition that plagues your brain, that interferes with your logical thinking.  

I am sick and some days the pressure builds up mentally, causing physical symptoms and I need to take a day off just like when having a fever.  I need to rest.  Any person deserves that without sarcastic comment.  You deserve to be trusted.

Why I Am Going To Stop Body Shaming

For as long as I can remember, the words “Fat Free” were a part of my everyday vocabulary.  I am not sure when the switch to fat free milk was made in my house but I don’t remember any other kind as a child.  It was in my elementary school years where cookies became bad, cakes were evil and chocolate was a swear word.  All of these possessed huge amounts of calories.  It didn’t mean too much back then as a small child.  I had frequent birthday parties that I went to where I had the “sinful” cake.  But it was starting, the body shaming, and I was learning it like every female before, from their mother.  I watched her turn down sweets, make lighter meals with every fat-free ingredient possible and often went with her to Ideal Weight meetings.  I even attended a few aerobic classes.  This was back in the 80s when Richard Simmons promised you a great figure if you just “Sweat To The Oldies”.  People only looked at the words “fat free” and “sugar free” , knew it wasn’t going to taste as yummy, but would be a good healthier version of the real thing.  So many times I tried to convince myself that those Snackwell cookies really did taste like chocolate heaven. What the heck was I thinking?!

My body shaming started around my pre-teens, eleven, twelve years old. It may have been a few years before.  I started to compare myself with my friends and couldn’t help but notice I was a little bit chubbier then they were. While a few of them were still in kids sizes in junior high, I had hit adult sizes and weighed almost 100lbs in my small 4′-9 1/2” frame. I looked at my thighs when sitting and just noticed how much they spread out. I saw the blob of knee fat I inherited from my mother’s side of the family. I critiqued every aspect of my body. I was absolutely ashamed.  I started dieting in high school.  Every summer I would follow Weight Watchers, nitpick at what I was eating, tell myself to do more exercise… still nothing was good enough.  My size in clothing just went up to about a women’s 8 and I was at my max height of 5′-1″.  Nothing that is really of a huge concern weight-wise but my mind was already made up.  I was fat.  I would never get a boyfriend, never be popular, never succeed.  Of course the media didn’t help.  Everywhere from magazines to TV shows, women were shown as toothpick skinny and still are.  Even as the years passed, it seems we have become comfortable showing bigger men on shows but the women seem to get skinnier.  What kind of message is that?!

So I kept myself busy.  Like I do now to keep my anxiety at bay, I do anything that prevents me from thinking.  I volunteered for the high school paper, the writing anthology, theater, anything.  Then I became sick April of my senior year and dropped ten pounds in a week due to a kidney infection that prevented me from keeping anything down.  I thought it was the greatest thing to happen to me.  Losing 10lbs in 1 week!  That was awesome in my teenaged/young adult mind.

Just when I thought I had this weight thing worked out, I went away to college and put on the freshman fifteen, but thankfully, lost it with Weight Watchers over the summer.  This cycle repeated my sophomore year.  Unfortunately, the losing part stopped with junior year.  By the time I graduated, I was thirty pounds heavier then when I started college and feeling like a big fat pig.  I could’ve taught a class in Body Shaming 101.  This weight stayed on me when I married my husband and was still there when I was told that I couldn’t continue living with my current resting blood pressure of 150/90.  I had to do something especially since we wanted to start a family the following year.

My PCP put me on a blood pressure medication, but basically told me I had to cut out all salt and actually perform some type of exercise activity instead of dreaming about it in my head.  Sure, sure, I can do that.  Day one, I put my sneakers on, disgustingly stared at myself in the mirror and did 15 minutes of Wii Fit.  Thinking some sort of weight loss miracle occurred in those 15 minutes I ran up to the bathroom and went to look at myself in the mirror again.  Nope, no change.  Why was I doing this?!  I was never going to be happy with body.  But I continued and worked my way up over the next few months to exercising 4 times a week for at least 30 minutes.  And, I lost weight.  I was thrilled!

Then I got pregnant with my daughter and was even more ecstatic until I hit that period in my pregnancy when I didn’t quite look pregnant yet, I just looked fat.  Great.  Now sporting a size 12 in pants to accommodate my little jellybean, I had to keep telling myself that there was a baby growing inside and that I wasn’t fat.   A few weeks later it was very apparent that I was indeed pregnant.  Once my daughter was born, losing the weight became very simple, but not healthy.  I developed postpartum Depression and Anxiety and was vomiting.  By the time she was a month old, I had lost about 30 of the 40 pounds I put on while pregnant.  I also was being hospitalized.  After twelve days there, I was now eating and eating a lot and gained fifteen of those pounds back.  A few months later, I started attending Weight Watcher’s meetings with my mother.  And the cycle continues.

I had a great few years when the stars were aligned and my mental, emotional and physical well-being were an amazing trifecta of strength.

Then, my mental leg slipped and dragged my emotional leg down with it.  I was hospitalized again for Major Depressive Disorder and Severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder in January 2015.  I saw my body go from 104lbs from not being able to eat when I entered the hospital and gradually rise the months following.  I had hit 130lbs, 15lbs more than I wanted to be because to me 115lbs was my ideal.  The weight only added to my Depression.  I was stagnant… no energy to do anything and eating too much.  A year later, this past January, I started counting calories.  Still nothing.  I kept up with walking at lunch, did Pilates at work, tried some fitness classes… nothing.  Feeling hopeless, I turned inward and started to blame the most logical source, the 3 medications I was on to keep me sane.  All 3 of them can cause weight gain.

What I didn’t see was my daughter.  I didn’t notice her there when I would question my husband on how exactly he cooked dinner down to every ingredient and amount used as I entered in the calories.  I didn’t see her when we went out to eat and I ordered a salad mentioning I wanted to lose weight.  I didn’t notice she was there and at the prime age to take in and absorb what I was saying.  I had continued and passed this thinking down to her.

“Mommy, I’m fat!” she told me one day.

I stared at her quizzically, “Where?  Where is there fat on your body?”

My daughter is tall and slender like her father.  She then proceeded to point to her stomach and the inherited knee fat.  What have I done?!  She’s only 9!  I don’t want her to grow up like me constantly looking for body approval and yet it has already started.  But I didn’t wake up that first time.  After brushing the comment off I still continued to track my calories, discuss my exercise, and turn away those sinful foods… still in front of her.

Then I weaned off one of my meds, the medication I thought for sure was causing the weight to stay on.  Yet, the weight didn’t come off.  I became sad and only discussed my weight obsession further in front of Sophia until I read the following 2 articles:

“I’m Afraid My Daughter Will Think It’s “Normal” to Hate Her Body — Because of Me” written on Babble by a friend from high school whose daughter is only a toddler and  “Why I’m Accepting the ‘Weight Gain’ Side Effect of My Psychiatric Medications” on The Mighty.

I reread them both and thought a lot about them over the last few days especially when my daughter complained she was “fat” again.  If I continued to shame myself, I was not only hurting myself, but affecting my daughter’s way of thinking about her body.  And why was I doing this?  Because I was 10lbs away from my goal weight, my perfect weight of 115lbs?  I am still on 2 medications that cause weight gain that I am nowhere near ready to get off of.  These meds help me live a typical life.  I am eating well, exercising when possible, basically doing everything I can do.  I can still fit it to XS and S shirts, still am a 0-4 in pants depending on brand.  I am still relatively skinny.

As I thought about all this, I thought about how I could execute the “No More Body Shaming” plan.  I have been shaming myself for around 30 years.  It would not be easy.  But like my friend Marisa states in her Babble article, I can try to not say anything in front of my daughter.  I am happy to report that for the last couple of days I have kept my mouth shut.  I still log my calories but am now doing it when she is not around.  I am learning to accept my figure and its “flaws”.  It is a start that I hope will reverse some of the damage I did to my daughter and create an appreciation for the amazing thing my body actually is.