Resolve isn't all it's cracked up to be

At about this time in 1992, I had resolved to drop some significant weight. I did this because, after a Christmas weekend with my maternal family, my husband at the time seemed to have an issue with how the women in my family aged, in terms of body size, and even though he swore he never would have said anything to me about it, he finally did after I pressed him and wouldn't let him keep shrugging off the disdain that he was unsuccessfully trying to hide.

Side note: When I asked him why he never mentioned his problem with my weight/shape earlier, he said, "Because I was afraid you wouldn't marry me." At some point during this whole discussion, he pulled the car over and, crying, begged me not to leave him. I told him I wouldn't. And I didn't. For more than 5 years. But, honestly, now I see that it's really difficult to come back from the knowledge that your partner has a fundamental problem with something about you that is ingrained in your DNA.

I specifically wanted to share an incident I've been remembering lately.

For Christmas, one of the things James got me was a one pound Reese's Peanut Butter Cup package. Each cup weighs 8 ounces and is multiple servings. It's lasted me a week and I just ate the final bite. I've had it for dessert for most meals since Christmas, and I'm not tired of it yet. Perfect gift.

26 years ago, I swore off of most of the food that I loved. I limited myself to 1500 calories and 7 grams of fat per day. I also committed to exercising every other day no matter what. If you think about it, this is how many people's New Year's Resolutions shape up. I wasn't doing it for the calendar; I was doing it to "save my marriage." Actually, I was doing it to keep my partner from being disgusted by me, which, again, in hindsight, was his shallow problem and not mine. He expressed displeasure, and I had to do all of the "work" to assuage it. How effed up is that? Plus the fact that it lead to years of my feeling like crap about myself. And it probably barely registered on his radar. In fact, he probably felt like he'd done something constructive.

We'd gone to visit my parents one weekend, and I remembered a really good chocolate shop near where I'd worked at a daycare when I lived in town. We all visited, and everyone got chocolates except me. It wasn't my "cheat day." I distinctly remember asking to see my then-husband's white bag, with three perfect candies nestled into paper cups at the bottom. I stuck my nose into the bag and inhaled. I can still smell the rich chocolate smell of those bonbons.

My mom asked me if I was going to eat one, and I said no, that smelling them like that was just as satisfying.

Which, of course, it wasn't. But that's where my brain was at the time.

Now, I did lose a bunch of weight. I got a lot of kudos for my efforts. I was praised for having discipline and self-control, for being "healthy" and for approaching the culture's version of attractiveness.

It was all bull, of course, because I was not healthy. I was obsessed with food, obsessed with maintaining a lifestyle within a hamster wheel, running to retain the supposed love I'd earned with my efforts.

Worst of all was this: Anyone who knows me knows I adore chocolate. It and pizza are the foods I could eat for the rest of my life and not get sick of them for at least a couple of years. You guys know that. James knows it. I'm certain my ex-husband knew it. But he was okay indulging in something I would have very much enjoyed while I abstained out of loyalty to his desire for how I should look.

Do you see how messed up that is?

Every time we went out to a restaurant when he got off of work and he ordered steak and potatoes while I ordered nothing because it was after 6 PM, and the waitress asked repeatedly if I was sure I didn't want anything at all... he never encouraged me to eat if I were hungry. He knew my rules and enforced them with his quiet approval.

He was allowed access to things that would have brought me joy because his body was naturally smaller than mine. And he never once advocated for my pleasure as a whole person. He was more invested in his own social currency, having a trim wife.

MESSED UP.

As we launch this new year, if you feel the motivation to make life changes based on the very arbitrary changing of the calendar, then I urge you to examine your motivation for doing so. Trying to become the best version of yourself possible is admirable, and it's hard work. I'll never believe that shrinking is tantamount to "better" nor will I ever again buy into the notion that making fundamental changes to oneself in order to obtain or hold on to the affections of another person is a productive goal.

In 2019, be kind to each other and be kind to yourself. And if you encounter someone who is not extending you the same respect, it might be a good exercise to look into that, to have difficult conversations, and to set boundaries. Best wishes to all.