Food For Thought (Not For Thighs)

"Oh, God. I am turning into my mother."

My older girlfriends tell me this is something I will be saying a lot more as I grow older.  I find myself saying it a lot more now than I did when I first moved out on my own. It usually has something to do with being late to a party because I was waiting for the glue on something I had rhinestoned to finish drying, or the fact that I am predominately attracted to men old enough to be my father, but this time, it was different.

A few days ago, as I made my way out of the shower and into my bedroom, I dropped my towel in front of the mirror.   I poked and prodded at myself for a good five minutes going "This is too big, this is too small, I hate these freckles, I wish I had my fat girl boobs back..." and so on and so forth.  When I reached up to grab my ribcage to make sure I could still feel it, and pinched my thighs, I looked at myself in the eye (well, in the mirror in the eye) and said that out loud.  "Oh, God.  I am turning into my mother."

I recall being a little girl, sitting on the toilet lid, kicking my feet back and forth as I watched my mom put her makeup on.  The process of makeup has always fascinated me.  The idea that you can transform your face in fifteen minutes boggled my mind, and all of the colors and smells and brushes were so foreign to me.  When she allowed it, I would watch.  I thought (and still do think) that my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.  She wasn't dowdy, or homely like my friends' moms.  She had long dark hair...and a body that always fascinated me.  I had always thought about what it would be like the day I grew the foreign orbs on her chest, and how I would probably spend all day poking them because they jiggled like Jell-O.

The process would start out like I do mine now.  Base makeup, concealer, blush, powder, and then the eyes and lips! My favorite part to watch! And as she would step back to admire herself, that's when it would start: "Ugh, my arms are so fat. I need to lose fifteen pounds. Ugh...my boobs..." Here I was looking at this gorgeous woman who in my eyes was perfect, and she was telling me otherwise. I was at the age where Mommy was always right.  So she must be.

I wish mothers knew that this is where little girl's self image is born.  Sitting on toilet lids, watching their moms get ready is where it all begins.

I was about nine when I realized what food does to you.  Growing up in the south, I was taught to clean up my plate so I could grow up "big and strong". A plate full of fried chicken and mashed potatoes will certainly make you big, but strong is debatable.  When my biological parents split up, I was given lots of sweets to ease the pain.  A reward if you will for putting up with Mommy and Daddy arguing.  Dealing with a new place to live in a scary environment was difficult.  Little Debbie understood me.  I would wander from my bedroom to the kitchen to eavesdrop on conversations Mom was having on the phone, and before you knew it, I had eaten an entire box of Ding-Dongs by myself.  Ding-Dong, my self esteem is dead!

Three months after my bio-parents divorced, I was in the throws of early puberty (probably due to a mixture of diet and hereditary issues) and my dad remarried. He married a particularly nasty breed of woman...one who liked to drink and take pills.  In her drunkenness, she used to poke me in the stomach and talk about how fat I was. "Never be good for anything.  No man will ever want you with a gut like that." I started to get sick, and that's when I realized that she was crushing up diet pills and putting them in my food.  This initiated the self-hate cycle of body image in my childhood and early adolescence.  It didn't matter that I was the lead in the school play, or that I had a terribly prestigious writing award hanging on my wall.  The only thing that mattered was the tag on my jeans.  I still think I am the only kid who went to Disney World and didn't get any photos taken because I had a muffin top.


Years later, as an adult woman now, I can see that these things weren't my fault.  And you know what?   It wasn't the women I surrounded myself with's fault either.  These behaviors are programmed in us as young girls and it's just a self fulfilling prophecy that keeps carrying on and on for generations.  As women, we are taught that our value is in numbers.  How much do we weigh? What is the measurement of our hips, our bra size? How old are we? What if we valued our flaws and saw them as trophies?

My beautiful mother has scars all over her body from her fight with cancer .  Her breasts are in a lot worse shape now than they were when I was a child kicking my legs back and forth on the toilet seat as I watched her cut them down, I'll tell you that.  But to me? They're more beautiful than ever.  They show her strength and her courage.  Women who have just had babies are the most beautiful to me.  Not post baby workout miracle photos, but women.  Women who have just brought life into this world should be celebrated for the miracle they have created, not cut down for breasts sagging, or a little extra pudge.  We put so much pride and focus in "losing the baby weight" instead of celebrating new life.  You just created a person! The gym can wait! I have stretch marks that crawl up the side of my hips.  I acquired these when I was going through puberty and I shot up.  I thought "How cool! I got so tall, my body can't keep up with me!" until I was told what they were, and that I was to be ashamed of abnormalities on my body.

I can't help but feel sad for the women in my family.  At one point, every single female relative of mine that I have spoken to about this has had some form of an eating disorder.  Certain members claim to have been anorexic for years on end, others were bingers, purgers, and most have been on some form of a restricted calorie or insane fad diet for most of their lives.  I am so grateful to have found veganism, and had the thirst for knowledge in healing my body, but as well as my mind.  Every day is a struggle for me still, and I am working on deprogramming my negative thoughts.

I have banned scales in my home.  I think they are evil for someone like me who has spent most of her life being criticized for their weight.  However, I was house sitting recently and couldn't help but notice my arch enemy sitting next to the toilet...the scale.  I was having a wonderful day prior to this moment.  I had intended on sitting by their pool, eating some green stuff, and taking time for myself.  My day was almost so perfect that cartoon bluebirds were about to be singing on my shoulder like in a Disney movie until I saw the number.  My life was over. It didn't matter that everything was looking up, how great my friends are, how much love and support I have in my life, the fact my hair was rocking that day, or even that I had new records in my possession (which usually always cheers me up). Nope.  I had put on the weight equivalent of a small shih-tzu, and I was through.

However, instead of doing what I wanted to do and go hide my feelings in another pint of almond dream (OH, GOD! That stuff is goooood) I reached out to my support group--my friends.  They reminded me of the emotional battle I had been through, how strong I was, and how it was perfectly normal to have picked up a few pounds here and there.  They helped get me back on track not because they were concerned about how I looked, but how I felt.  And there is the biggest difference.  

As I started to tear up at the number on the scale, I had a thought.  What if it were never programmed into my brain that I was never going to be good enough?  What if I had been told from Day 1 that I was perfect as I was?  What if I hadn't been exposed to photoshopped images, and TV, and all the other nonsense that makes us as women feel less than?  What if I were taught to have a beautiful mind, and to cherish my talents and abilities instead of the circumference of my thighs? What if...just what if...as little girls, sitting on the tops of toilets watching our mothers get ready, that we got to hear the words "I. Am. Beautiful." instead? What if they reminded us that we are souls with bodies, not bodies with souls? 

Today, I showered as usual, and walked back into my room to stand in front of the mirror.  I dropped my towel and had a good, hard look.  I saw my freckles, my bruises (because I am not perfect.  I am clumsy), my scars, my chipped toenails...all of it.  And instead of going into autopilot, I just thought: That's Payton.

(That's Payton, alright. Twelve years after being a ballet school dropout, she still can't touch her toes. Working on it!)

And there's only one person well equipped enough for that job.