 I remember exactly when I became so aware of me. In junior high, I made specific note of another girl’s legs. Now hear me out. Her legs were simply thin and strong, and I accepted the notion that I would be happier if only my legs were like hers too. I wasn’t overweight, but for the first time I became critically aware of what I believed I needed to look like in order to be happy.
Of course, if I wanted to change the way I was going to look, I was going to have to change the way I ate and exercised. So I made a plan. When could I eat or not eat? When could I have treats? How was I going to get stronger? What would I have to change? Thus began my burden.
I decided right away that I was going to have to cut out treats, and I needed to exercise regularly. I began to pay better attention to the foods I ate and learned more about healthy options. I thought a lot about it. For the next few years, I had plan after plan—diet after diet—that I hoped would bring me the results I wanted. Some brought better results than others did. With each new effort I began with the idea that I would start my new, healthy habits tomorrow. Tomorrow would come with the determination that I was not going to eat any treats. Nope, no treats, just for a day or maybe even a week. I could do it.
After one particular school day, I told myself that I was only going to have a sandwich as a snack. I knew that a big bag of cookies was in the refrigerator, but I thought about it and reminded myself that I was not going to have any. I would have self-control. Yep. I can do it. No problem. No cookies, I told myself. But from there I proceeded to think about the cookies every few minutes. The more I thought about them, the more I wanted one. In no time, I found myself eating a cookie, and then another, and another . . . Whatever happened to my resolve and self-control? Of course after eating several, I chastised myself, rehearsing that I knew better. I was going to get wider for sure. In fact, I was gaining weight as I sat there! And after so many cookies, I didn’t feel well either. Exercise! I thought to myself. I could go and do some exercise. That’s right. My guilt was such that I decided to work out on a full stomach.
I have seven sisters and three brothers. My father was very protective of his girls. One of his rules was that we were not to go jogging alone outside of our cul-de-sac. Even a group of two was not generally enough; three was preferred. So here I was concerned about all the cookies I ate, and ready to exercise right away.
My options were slim. After thinking it over, running seemed like my best bet, but my father’s rules were quite restrictive. I was intent, however, on feeling better (emotionally and physically) about those cookies. So off I went, around the cul-de-sac, again and again, guessing how many laps would equal a mile, and getting dizzy on a full stomach. Nice. Sadly, this type of occurrence was not an isolated adolescent incident.
It was during those years that I became interested in nutrition. My will power was actually quite strong during certain phases. During one such phase, I restricted myself to three treats a week. I allowed one on Monday, one on Wednesday, and one on the weekend. I stuck with this successfully for quite a while, but I could not keep it up forever. Diets worked for a short time, after which I would quickly gain back the pounds I’d lost with such great effort.
After a few years, I found myself over thinking meals. At one point I would eat, then immediately begin thinking about my next snack or meal. I was keenly aware of how long it had been since I last ate, and when it would be okay to eat again. Disappointment lingered as I had waited all that time, and the meal was over quickly. At other times, I woke in the morning with my first thoughts centered on breakfast. I did not eat to live—I lived to eat.
This mindset was consuming. I constantly created new dietary plans, failed to live up to my expectations, and felt guilty. It was a vicious cycle that resulted in a persistent cloud of discontent.
This moderate, yet nagging emotional battle went on for several years. I figured the only way to be completely satisfied was to push through some form of food regulation again with the hope of next time having greater willpower and more energy of mind. This was exhausting and ultimately discouraging.
Don’t misunderstand. I don’t mean to paint a doom and gloom picture of my mentality. I was like most girls, busy with school, friends, work, and family. I enjoyed learning, having new experiences, and being social. I was generally happy. I would definitely highlight my teenage years as a great time in my life. However, I think that most women (and many men) can identify to one degree or another with this constant fog that reminds us of food and its effects. It was tough to shake.
In reviewing a recent study conducted by psychology professor, Diane Spangler, and graduate student, Tyler Owens, Sara Israelsen-Hartley found that, “the brains of healthy, well-adjusted women with no history of eating disorders were activated in a similar way to bulimics when shown pictures of overweight women.”
Mark Allen, a Brigham Young University neuroscientist, says, “At a subconscious level, they really are bothered by the prospect of [gaining weight].” Many men are not exempt either. This subconscious awareness of how we look seems to linger in the back of our minds, and it affects us even when we don’t realize it.
After many years of feeling burdened by discontentment, I’ve come across an emotionally and physically healthy approach to achieving the peace of mind I craved. I’ve lived it for several years, and it works. I’ve shared these thoughts about my early experiences in hopes that those who identify with the same burden might, too, have hope and, ultimately, peace of mind. My solution is straightforward, natural, costs nothing, and just makes sense—stop thinking about it.
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