I was overcome with a cleansing desire today -- opened the windows of my temperature controlled house and started on a pile of boxes stuck in a back corner. Among other treasure and garbage I came across a cache of photos that my dad had horded. Old photos, but not that old -- I was in many of them, at ages 7 and 9 and 12. Other people I remembered were in them. I found the long lost photo of my grandfather's gravesight.
And it didn't hurt. No urge to break down in tears, no lump in the throat, no papations.
There is a photo of me on Award day in junior high, my hands full of trophies and certificates (I was one of those kids), looking THIN. I mean, SKINNY. Not surprising, really. I think it was my eight grade photo and I was in the midst of the "diet pill" amphetamine haze (yes, doctor prescribed amphetamines for a 14 year old. I started when I was 11 and finally refused them when I was 15. There are reasons I was a straight A student for 3 years who had few friends, lots of depressive habits, and read every book that wandered my way.) I didn't look unhealthy, but there was all kinds of skinniness in that picture.
I was still convinced of my fatness. Everyone told me I was fat -- I think I had big thighs and calves because I walked and rode my bike a lot then, and rollerskated a lot. But the face, the neck, the chest, the arms -- skinny. Hard to believe. I don't remember feeling thin. I don't remember thinking I was thin. I'd been "dieting" -- aka developing my weird relationship with food, eating everything that was "bad" for me when no one was looking -- for about 4 years by then. Four years.
Four years. From the time I was about 10. I remember my mother fixing me meals consisting of a single hamburger pattie (fried), sliced tomato, and a spoonful of mac-n-cheese. That was a diet meal.
What is it in my mind that I can't conquer about my weight? How many years before I figure it out?
Anyway, there's more stuff to be cleaned and I want to clean while moving doesn't hurt.