And so it began.....

I sit back and wonder how I got to this point. I am 25 years old, about to be 26, and have passed the 300lb thresh hold. Previously, I would have never admitted this. I would have said I am happily 215, and bowed my head in pride. However, recently one of my obsessions has become being honest with myself. I am honest to other people, but I have spent the majourity of my life lying to the person that matters most: myself.

I look back at my life and wonder where it began. Who is to blame? Is there anyone but myself? The answer to that is complex. Looking back at my childhood, it was honestly a blur. I was raised very fast. Educated and pushed to become an adult so that I could handle life, especially if something were to happen to my parents. I was a fat kid, but never truly obese. They said I was "Chubby", and that it would dissipate with age. I remember my grandmother obsessing over cookies and cakes when she came to visit, and I never shied away. I remember someone in my childhood making a comment about how I snarfed down the sweets and how that changed me. I use to hide peanut butter & jelly sandwiches in my toy box as a VERY little kid so that I would have a snack if I got hungry before bed. Problem came in, I almost never ate it. Funny, isn't it?

One of my fondest memories of my Grandfather on my mothers side, is M&M's. He had a huge brandy snifter next to his bedside, and would call for me down the hall to come and retrieve my reward. Oh and did I. He would count one for him, and two for me. Two for him, one for me. We would take turns like that until the snifter went from overfilled to roughly halfway, and he'd send me traipsing back to my room to cuddle my record player and read my encyclopedias.

Some of my most comforting memories of my Grandmother on my mothers side is in the big brown double wide (yes, a real life trailer park. No, not one with Cletus and the brother married to the sister of the cousin of the mom) and the warm smell of her cooking. My Grandmother Powell was a lover of pastries and oh did she envelope me and my family in her passion for all foods ooey gooey and flaky. When it comes to Nana Powell, my memories seem to involve food. She was always bringing cookies or cakes or groceries to my parents when she would visit. My family spent the bulk of my childhood being broke, and my Nana did the best she knew how to comfort and help us. Food was just one of the many, but it seems to stick out in my mind the most. When I think of her, I think of cookies, cakes and oddly enough, Marlboro Lights (her intense cigarette addiction, obviously). I have few memories of my Nana Powell that don't revolve around food, unfortunately. I remember board games, and reading her stories, but even in those instances, I can still recount what passed my lips and entered my stomach.

I dont blame my mother, or my mothers family. I do think that my Grandmother had a hand in things, but I refuse to put this on anyone's shoulders but my own. My mothers side of the family were not the only culprits in my introduction to sweets and junk. My Nana Fish (my Father's mother) cooked the most incredible food (aside from my Mom, of course) and would share it in massive doses. My Nana was a very serious diabetic, but refused to really deal with it; ultimately causing her death. I remember Thanksgivings with the family wrapped around a table bedecked with foods of every shape, colour and size. Over arguments turning into laughter and discussions on everything from religion to jokes to who is winning the football games; we would keep dipping our forks or spoons into the foods infront of us. Pink stuff (whipped cream, strawberries, cottage cheese and jello mixed into this sinfully delish treat) dominated our dessert table, along with pumpkin pie. I honestly have some of the best memories in the world of my Nana Fish, and hers dont centre around food. I remember bright sunny days with her neon orange toenail and fingernail polish reflecting. Her light southern accent sounding like sharpened wind chimes chirping, laughing at the simplest things. God, I love my Nana. This brings tears to my eyes.

I would have never admitted to using food as my crutch, but alas, it seems to be true. I have been ultra stressed lately, working 60 hours or more a week and worrying about my weight along with mundane things like money. In those most stressful times, I find myself aching for a cup of hot tea, and a chocolate chip cookie (or 10). Towards the end of the day at work today, when I was fuming from a decision made by a manager I found myself salivating at the thought of chocolate melting on my tongue. I would have never admitted to having a true problem with food, but I truly do. Do I over eat? Not for the most part. Just like any skinny person out there, I have my days. What's the difference you ask? Most skinny people wouldn't hide what they eat from the person they love, for fear of judgement. No, he won't judge me. He supports me, and helps me; but that fear still exists from the pits of my stomach, echoing the words from my childhood.

The only difference is, today I ADMIT it.