I Don't Need to Be Forgiven

Nagivating the High Seas of Trauma and Weight Gain

I come from a childhood where emotional abuse was doled out as readily as chewable vitamins. It wasn’t that big a mystery to connect the dots of my low self-esteem, weight issues, disordered eating, and other symptoms to having parents that did the opposite of encourage me and school bullies who were equally belittling. I got into therapy posthaste at the age of 20 (because, helllooo, there had to be something severely wrong with me). In the years that followed, I examined, then cleared out all the emotional debris from my past I could get my hands on. Apparently, I didn’t get my hands on all of it (more below).

There were also meteoric ascents from the fruits of my psychological labor, including a mentorship that birthed a 180-pound weight-release, courtesy of Diamond Dallas Page and DDPYOGA. I was on top of the world, but even he noticed something was off, remarking on more than one occasion that my lack of self-confidence was unusual for someone who’d scaled such heights of achievement and had a new lease on life. Still, I was loving life in a renewed, lighter body. And I spent years doing public speaking, teaching DDPYOGA classes, and writing books on my process.

When I stepped into my first therapy session in 1985, the 60-something German-born psychiatrist wasn’t playing. Dr. Weitz was seasoned and didn’t want to waste my time or hers. By the end of our second session she proclaimed the origin of my low self-esteem was improper parenting that took root within an unhealthy and beleaguered marriage. Not a surprise to hear, but it was a relief to have validation that I (contrary to what my parents drilled into me) was not the problem. Also a known quantity: the nutrient-barren soil in which I attempted to sprout was further poisoned by bullying at school. I badly wanted out of the torment, so I rolled up my sleeves and spent years sifting through humiliating and painful memories and coming to terms with them. Then came the weight-loss followed by the golden era of living on top of the world.

It all was smooth sailing until one night in 2014, when someone very dear to me died suddenly and traumatically in front of my eyes. I've never fully recovered from the depth of the shock of that emotional earthquake. Processing the fallout has been a part-time job these past nine years. What's certain to me now is, that night opened the dungeonous gates within, and unleashed ghosts from traumas-past that I didn’t even realize existed. They were so deeply buried, I hadn’t a clue there were parts of me crying out to be exhumed. My unconscious, being the protective pal that it is, proactively hid the hideous memories so I could better survive, and some of you may know a thing or two about this.

The trauma of 2014 also brought the onset of autoimmune disease. The upside to that was, with my energy drained, life went into slow motion and I had newfound time on my hands with which to procure a disturbing insight: it wasn’t just emotionally unavailable parents and psychologically disturbed bullies who had plagued me – but friends. Yes, friends. The ones who were, by definition, in my corner. And inasmuch as we all know the job description of a friend, I remember the day in 2021 when I bolted awake with the realization I’d been living in a zombie state, allowing some of my closest ‘allies’ to walk all over me. It was a fact that was undeniable, but the abject shame I felt because of it sent this searing truth to the most underground regions of my underground.

In my younger years, I’d bite my lip to keep from crying as ‘friends’ assailed me with judgment about my weight, food intake, clothing attire - whatever happened to catch their attention that day. I was so desperate to belong, my method of handling the vitriol was shrugging it off because (as I’d been told at home) I was fat, could never stick to a diet, and therefore got what I deserved.

As I aged, so did the nature of the friendships, which morphed from being the unprotesting dartboard to adopting the role of the people-pleasing whirling dervish. These one-sided friendships were frought with cleverly disguised ‘to do’ lists. Why wouldn’t I cater hither and thither to those who sought hours of my unpaid therapy services? I mean, I was fat chick with no life, right? Where else did I have to be other than at someone else's disposal?  I alternately obeyed the commands and ignored the micro-aggressions of these bottomless pits who purported to be friends. It all stemmed from what I believed I deserved. The patterns were embedded as such a tender age, I had no idea, until much later in life, what a healthy relationship with another human being was like. By middle age, my body and psyche were screaming for the residual mess to be cleaned up once and for all.

The wounds of betrayal from friends ran so deep I hadn’t even consciously felt them for 50 years. It’s one thing to process bullying from strangers and classmates. But coming to terms with being mistreated by friends is something else entirely. To say it underpins one’s view of oneself is a gross understatement. When I inhaled the smelling salts and finally woke up to what I’d been looking away from, it was a rough landing. My heart ached profusely for all the self-betrayal I allowed over the years.

So much emotional shrapnel fired at me had settled to the bottom of the river, so to speak, that my body was starting to break down (two books on the topic are "The Body Keeps The Score," by Besel van der Kolk, and “Inflamed” by Rupa Marya and Raj Patel). Osteoarthritis, a foot injury, and the onset of autoimmune disease and its various diagnoses all collided at once. I was laid low, had little to no energy reserves, and movement was an achy chore.

I still ate (mostly) gluten-free and dairy-free, but the weight came on. And when 10 pounds turned to 50, then 70, my despair intensified. I wish I could say I was seized with a lightening bolt of inspiration and turned the ship around by getting more stringent with food and forcing myself to exercise (in spite of the pain) but a diet-fitness model isn’t what I need right now. What was required was a deep dive into the troubled waters of my childhood, adolescence and young adulthood. I needed to drop the people-pleasing survival skills because they never worked in the first place - they only reinforced the habit of self-betrayal. Toxic relationships needed to be assessed, and in some cases, tossed on the scrap heap. Sometimes the process is painful, but I want quality of life and I’m no longer willing to pretend.

Those glorious ‘after’ pictures now elicit an unmistakable sadness in me. As do the YouTube videos from the DDPY production team of my transformation story. Such is life. There are mountains to scale victoriously and valleys of sorrow to stumble through. Having lived successfully as a ‘weight-loss inspiration,’ I now consider it my mantle to be a truth-teller to and for those sensitive, intuitive, highly intelligent souls who have been pummeled by the opportunists who lurk down, around, and on life’s unpredictable paths.

Thanks to a steady diet of kindness and with the guidance of nutritionist Nancy Guberti, I’ve made strides in my physical health. I have a good deal of my energy back and no longer need a nap (or two) to get through the day. I pray the weight will release when the time is right. It’s not that I buy into the ‘better person when thin’ charade, but the truth is, everything’s easier when I’m at a lower weight. We shall see. I’m concerned with the whole picture, now, but especially trauma-release. The storage of it and how easily it is incurred in our culture of competition and perfectionism is appalling.

I still adore food and cooking, but the motivation isn’t so much weight-loss as it is the elements of comfort, joy, and nutrition. I believe in eating in a way that not only fuels the body, but helps it heal. Don’t take me for a purist, though. I also am prone to treating myself to food for the sole purpose of pleasure, without the offensive terminology of the word ‘cheating.’ I’m more of a 70-30 type of gal at this point.

The only thing I’m concerned with where cheating is concerned is to no longer cheating myself: out of speaking truthfully, out of saying no when I mean no, and cheating myself out of self-respect by giving time and energy to anyone who doesn’t have a clue about reciprocity. Repaving my self-worth takes work and I’m happily committed to it. I don’t need to be forgiven. I need to be repaired, remolded, reparented, and once and for all…set free.

Not being mistaken for a pregnant woman (as I sometimes was at my highest weight) is great. Not being mistaken for a dartboard, however, is downright priceless - and achievable at any size.