Memoir of a Recovering Fat Ass

By Gina Harry

"Memoir of a Recovering Fat Ass" is the true story of a woman's journey in finding forgiveness for the people in her life who verbally assault her. Her story spans forty years and takes her readers across the continent and back, in and out of numerous jobs, through college, and into two marriages. The truth she encounters on the way includes the revelation that her most heinous offender is very close, too close. Confronting the surprise offender requires courage and a near tragedy that almost costs the life of a loved one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gina Harry
• Release date: Jul 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465790798

Gina Harry

I'm a 40-something writer and speech therapist who has many interests. From horses to motorcycles to health and environmental issues, no moss grows under my feet. I'm sure I work much more than I play. The only rememdy for this is to make work analogous to play, and always striving for the "zen".

Book preview

Memoir of a Recovering Fat Ass

By

Gina Harry

Published by Gina Harry at Smashwords

Copyright 2008 Gina Harry

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Edited by Barrie Jean Borich

Cover design by Laura Shinn

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Out of anger comes forgiveness

Chapter Two

Her ass is getting bigger.

Chapter Three

I wish you would lose a hundred pounds.

Chapter Four

How wide is your ass getting?

Chapter Five

I hope you get so fat.

Chapter Six

You fat bitch.

Chapter Seven

I don't like fat girls.

Chapter Eight

Look at her. She's fat. You must have something for fat girls.

Chapter Nine

She's a fat bitch.

Chapter Ten

She used to be cute; now she's fat.

Chapter Eleven

Hey Gina, you'd be cute if you had a case of Slim Fast.

Chapter Twelve

You fat ass bitch.

Chapter Thirteen

I never had a fat wife before and I'm not gonna start now.

Chapter Fourteen

I remember you being so small.

Chapter Fifteen

Fat hog, fat pig, fat cow, fat bitch, blimp, fat like a tank, fat and disgusting, fat and sickening, obese, fat and weak, spineless and fat, fat and worthless, too fat to love, stupid for being fat, fat, fat, fat, etc.

Chapter Sixteen

A friend is somebody who makes you feel accepted.

Chapter One

Out of anger comes forgiveness.

This is not a diet book. If you are seeking the elusive secrets to diet success, or need inspiration in your own battle of the bulge, you’ll need to buy another book. Even though I’m familiar with nearly every diet imaginable, I am not qualified to write a diet book. This book is more of a diagnostic document, which as a recovering fat ass I am qualified to write.

In reference to the title, I prefer to call myself a recovering fat ass so as not to be confused with recovered. Like sober alcoholics who refrain from declaring themselves recovered, I don’t claim to be absolved of my addiction to food. My anecdotes stem from many diet failures (and a few successes), and the consequences that surround these perpetual cycles in my life.

Fat ass could be defined as that particular area of the human anatomy that has a higher than normal number of fat cells, or bigger fat cells, or both, whatever the case, causing that area to be larger in size. The term fat ass has pervaded my life many times, in many forms, and on many levels. One thing remains consistent—the level of pain associated with the expression and similar utterances.

The term fat ass might offend some people, but I chose to use it in the title because I question why this language remains within the realm of political correctness when numerous other derogatory terms are defined by society as hate propaganda or even hate crimes. Yes, being overweight or obese is different from other targets of hate because, as compared to race, sex and age, the numbers on the scale are very much our responsibility. In other words, we can control it.

Or can we? We are immersed in a junk food culture unknown to humanity in the past. The standard American diet is high in calories and has almost no nutritional value; in fact, the food we eat probably does more damage than good. All of this in a time when Americans have access to the most varied diet in human history. Nevertheless, many of us face a lifelong struggle trying control what should come naturally.

As long as terms like fat ass remain politically correct they will serve as a societal anger management pressure release valve of sorts. Ironically, concurrent with this phenomenon is an increasing level of obesity in America and other countries. Obviously it’s inevitable that more and more people will become intimately familiar with the expression and the turmoil associated with it.

One day my husband came home from visiting with friends. I saw Carey Smith today. He told me he knew you, he said.

Who?

Carey Smith, he said he used to stop in the bar when you worked there.

I didn’t remember a Carey Smith from my younger days, but I was curious. What does he look like?

He has brown hair and brown eyes, and he almost always had Harley.

I churned the wheels of my memory, reflecting on all the bikers I knew, but to no avail. I really don’t remember any Carey Smith.

Anyway, when I told him we were together he said he heard you got big and fat.

He said what? My eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

I told him you were back down to size, my husband quickly added.

Who told him I got big and fat?

He squirmed, no doubt sensing a sore topic. I didn’t ask.

The next time somebody brings up the subject of my fat, you have my permission to knock his teeth down his throat. I wasn’t kidding; my husband could do it.

Gina, he tried to soothe me. He didn’t say anything bad.

Anything bad? I was pissed. Some things were better left unsaid. I might’ve put on a few pounds since whoever this guy is saw me last, but I also finished seven years of college, was the first in my graduate school class to land a good job in a field that I love, started my own business, got married and divorced, and wrote a book. But all of my accomplishments are boiled down into me getting fat! Did he bother to ask you if I finished school?

No.

Four letter words spouted from my lips like a potato pot boiling over on Thanksgiving Day. It’s a wonder the windows didn’t steam up. My body size, the area where failure consistently plagued me, once again was thrown in my face, perhaps innocently, perhaps not. It was rare that this was an innocent occurrence.

Dammit! I replied to my husband as he silently witnessed my first tantrum in a state of alarm. I’m going to write a book. I’m going to expose all the pricks that made the size of my ass their business. I going to make them look like the pieces of crap they are!

Thankfully my first novel was being reviewed at a publishing house so I had time to begin a new book. I knew the routine. The keyboard smoked as I laid down angry word after angry word. I wasn’t messing around; my frustration was buried deep in the characters on the monitor, and I couldn’t get them out fast enough.

The first draft consisted of the bare bones of my fury. It was filled with spite, hate, and revenge. There were at least twelve incidents I could remember, and twelve people to hang out to dry. I went over each incident and told my point of view. I had not a care in the world about their feelings; I was out to inflict pain!

But then a curious thing happened. With subsequent drafts I needed more detail, and more detail required deeper thinking. While I delved into my past and carefully reviewed every situation and the people involved, my opinion of most of them softened. I had to face the facts and realize my role in setting these people off. I began to see them as human—fallible, emotional creatures that we are.

As my manuscript evolved, so did I. The unthinkable laid bare my soul—forgiveness. Forgiveness crept into my consciousness like a thief in the night. It caused a profound metamorphosis in my character. Harboring rage towards these people of my past infected me more that I thought it had. Slowly, one by one I forgave most of them, but not all.

The following pages present more than anecdotes of verbal insults. Some of the perpetrators also committed acts of violence that will require more time to heal, perhaps more time than my lifetime. That remains to be seen. But the forgiveness I had found set me free in ways I never would’ve known if I hadn’t undertaken the task of this memoir. This book was born out of anger, but it was nurtured with forgiveness. When the length increased, I knew that I was on to something. I knew it was imperative to share my story.

As you travel through these chapters, you will come across numerous cause-and-effect issues in one form or another. This includes, but is not limited to, loss of control of self, others, and/or environment. Coupled with the above concept of fat ass, the consequences that culminate in fatist language contributes to a hell of a lot of us hating ourselves or others simply because we bear the burden of a decadent eating culture that sets us apart from what’s physically acceptable. We are outsiders among our own kind.

For the percentage of us who fail to remove ourselves from the fat ass target zone, forgiveness is the portal to discarding self-hatred and to healing our broken and bleeding self-images. At least for me it has been. Yes, most dieters do fail, but we can wrestle some of the control back into our corner. However, healing our shattered self-esteem takes insight, patience, and courage.

I’m not claiming to have all the answers. The dichotomies of my life gave me a glimpse of all sides of the ticket—from thin and beautiful, to pleasantly plump and cute, to totally obese and unable to garner attention even when the male to female ratio was highly in my favor. This self-disclosure is my attempt to locate at least some of the answers.

So grab a giant slice of pizza and curl up (extra cheese please), and know that the tears can dry from your pillow too.

Chapter Two

Her ass is getting bigger.

I was born with the fat gene, or with carbohydrate sensitivity, or without the neurotransmitter that tells me when to stop eating. Whatever absolves me from responsibility works. I wasn’t a fat baby. I entered the world on October 5, 1964 weighing seven pounds ten ounces, just another typical infant.

My mom, Leah, was a jet setter of sorts. Never one to back down from a fight, she refused to expose her children to an abusive relationship. With three small children she divorced my biological father in the early sixties among familial and social disapproval. I was the tender age of nine months.

My biological father soon disappeared to California and became somewhat of a myth to me. Throughout my entire childhood I talked to him on the phone maybe five times. I saw him once around 1972. He returned from California and gave us a ride to the ice cream stand. He didn’t say much, and then he dropped us off and drove away through the late summer dust, not to return for decades.

My mom struggled to maintain her independence in those days. I think it made her stronger—and wiser. She never spoke ill of my father, but I heard stories from other family members of things that happened before I was born.

I was still a baby when my mom met Bill Lane, a soft-spoken hard-working man whom, I’m told, loved to bounce me on his knee. I was a toddler when they married. He immediately became our dad, and still is to this day. My older brother David, older sister Nettie, and I were just as much his kids as was our younger bother Billy, whom we welcomed to our family a few years after the wedding.

Growing up in the green hills of southwestern Pennsylvania was great. My mom and dad worked hard to provide four kids with a modest but comfortable life in the country. We were able to have pets, and my family nurtured my love for animals throughout my childhood. Dogs, cats, gerbils, bunnies, and ponies became my best friends. I spent a lot of time with them, and couldn’t wait until I got home from school to see them.

Down home country cooking was good. We were not farmers; we just ate like we were (assuming most farmers eat well). I eagerly devoured delicious meals of spaghetti, chicken or turkey smothered in gravy, beef or pork roasts, and stuffed peppers (au jus) with mashed potatoes. As soon as I walked in the house after school, delicious aromas tantalized my senses.

Deep in the heart of steel country, we reveled being part of the 1970’s Steelers phenomena. It gave us a sense of pride, and a reason to eat and drink heartily on Sundays. My stomach growls as I write.

Breakfast at home (usually bacon and eggs), lunch at school (had to clear my plate), and dinner at home were staples. In between meals I ate snacks of cookies, crackers, ice cream, cheese, and the holiest of holies—pizza. There absolutely must be pizza in heaven. At night, huge heaping bowls of cereal regularly graced the table in front of me. There weren’t near as many sugar-laden cereals then, so I heaped on a half cup of my own from the dusty brown Tupperware canister on the top of the refrigerator. My dad often remarked that my bowl needed sideboards.

At a young age I lost touch with my stomach. An overabundance of carbohydrates, sugar, and fats confused my sense of nutrition and satiety. I always wanted more. It was like some deep underlying force compelled me, and there was no controlling it.

Other members of my family struggled with their weight. My mother, younger brother, cousins, and aunts were calorically challenged as well. Eating like a farmer, but not working like one took its toll on our genes/jeans, but we didn’t make fun of each other. Nobody could afford crude comments if they wanted to eat supper instead of wearing it, and we all wanted to eat supper!

Unfortunately fat never clogged my ears. I heard many people whisper the dreaded words ‘but she has such a pretty face.’ Sometimes they didn’t have to say it; I saw it in their eyes—a sad, pitying look. Members of the pretty face club zealously guard our only asset. We struggle through periods of our lives when our pretty faces are the only objects of vanity we possess while trying to survive in this incredibly vain world. Sometimes I think at least I’m not ugly, and I buy right into the vanity.

While growing up my cousin Susie and I were constant companions. Her mom and mine were sisters. We lived next door to each other throughout our childhood. She was born seven months before me, which made us perfect playmates. I saw Susie nearly every day.

I always adored Susie. I thought she was the most beautiful person in the world. She had the blackest hair I’d ever seen. On clear sunny days the sky reflected dark blue off of her crown. It was stunning compared to my drab dishwater blond.

Susie’s eyes were deep chocolate brown, my favorite color. I used to pray every night that I would wake up with brown eyes like hers, and in the morning I’d run to the mirror only to be disappointed yet again by the same old shades of blue and green. It always seemed as if my eyes weren’t quite sure what color they wanted to be.

Susie and I swam, rode ponies, and ate together. We had frequent tea parties when we were very young. We sat daintily in our frilly dresses at a little white table outside the kitchen door. The blinding summer sun reflected off the table forcing us to squint. Our favorite crackers accompanied our tea, mine piled high with cheese and Susie’s spread thick with mayonnaise (yes I said mayonnaise). I’m sure we were a sight as we ate freely, uncorrupted by society, innocent to the pressures of being thin.

I recall feeling fat not long after that (about five or six years of age). School shopping was spent on the husky pages in the JCPenny catalogue as early as kindergarten.

Warm humid evenings often led to a game of kickball in Susie’s backyard. Considering there were eight children between both families, and the addition of a few neighborhood kids, we had good-sized teams. I wasn’t an athletic youngster so I never played any important positions, and my runs and outs didn’t count. It was a