My Big Bottom Blessing (3 page)

There are enemies all around us
Seeking to destroy
They come to tear our hearts apart
And take away our joy.
Some are just plain bothersome,
Some invoke great fear.
But none are near as devastating
As the enemy in the mirror.

 

Imagine yourself standing in front of a mirror right now—completely naked. Can you say that you love who you see? Believe it or not, I can.

Now you're probably thinking one of two things: either this lady has a perfect body, or she's a total liar. Wrong. In fact, at the writing of this book I am about fifty pounds heavier than society deems appropriate, and I promise the declaration is no lie. Hopefully you will find this easier to believe once you've read my story. It is an unraveling—or maybe a roller coaster—but it's a tale that ends ever so triumphantly.

As you can probably surmise by now, I have not always been okay with my body. In fact, most of my life
disgust
would have been the appropriate word to define what I felt when looking in the mirror. Research shows I'm not alone. A recent
Glamour
magazine poll revealed that 97 percent of women have cruel thoughts about themselves each day—thirteen times a day on average.
¹
And sadder still, 90 percent of high school junior and senior girls diet regularly, even though only 10 to 15 percent would be considered truly overweight.
²

This obsession we have with weight and physical appearance is crazy—especially from a Christian perspective. Think about this: the value that has been placed upon being thin is not a value that has been given by God. In fact, the Bible is pretty clear that what matters most to the Lord is the appearance of the heart. Although being healthy is important, God is far more concerned with the amount of love we are showing than with the firmness of the thigh we are showing. So, who do you think is behind this value inflation? Could it be the Father of Lies, the devil? Who else would want to keep us distracted and weighed down by things that matter so little? Who else wants us to hate the very flesh God made?

It's one of the world's biggest tragedies, really. Millions of women like you and me take their first steps of each day into a bathroom where a lie/mirror is waiting to tear them down. For some the object of ridicule is a nose that is too large. For others it is a web of wrinkles. For me it was always my weight.

Looking back on my earliest years, I don't remember there being even one season in which I was happy with my body. Painful awareness of my larger size came as early as elementary school. Kids were cruel. Being teased in grade school feels…well, you remember how it feels, don't you?

And we all remember the little saying about how sticks and stones might break our bones, but words…now those can
never
hurt us. Denial in its earliest stages, don't you agree? I used to stick my little chest out—along with my tongue—while reciting this cheeky mantra in the face of many a bully, hoping it would magically erase my humiliation and fear. But it didn't have the power I'd hoped for. The words just plain hurt. In fact, they stuck to my heart like glue.

Isn't it sad that the hurtful words of our past are the ones that have the most sticking power? I have several flash-bulb memories of my parents hugging me and telling me how smart and beautiful I was. I have vague memories of teachers telling me what a pleasure I was to have in class. But the memories of what the bullies said…now, those are crystal clear.

All I need to do is close my eyes for a moment, strap on the seat belt of my mind, and I'm instantly transported back to the fourth grade. I'm doing my best to hold down the position of class caboose as our line makes its way to PE, my all-time least favorite class. Then the sixth graders round the corner heading our way. I can feel my little heartbeat quicken and my palms begin to sweat. I know what is coming. I know
who
is coming: Johnny. Blonde-haired, freckle-faced, chase-me-off-the-bus Johnny and his hideous sidekicks.

Now in order for you to fully understand the humiliation that would soon flood my soul, I need to offer a quick pronunciation key. My maiden name is Teasi Gootee, prounounced TeaSee Goaty (like goat). It was not at all easy having a name like this in elementary school, especially because it was almost always pronounced Teeeezee Goooody.

So out of Johnny's mouth come (at hall-filling volume, of course) the knife-like words with the adhesive power of super glue: “Teeeezee Goooody has a greasy bootie.” Over and over again he'd say it. Every time he saw me, he said it. And others joined in the fun. I can still feel the phantom pains in my stomach.

Trying to stand up for myself only made me feel even more ridiculous. All I could do was shout, “No I don't. I just took a bath!” That didn't help anything.

I remember every detail of times like those. Good news is, I survived…and personal hygiene is priority to this day.

It was during those early school years that I came to know a powerful character who would play a huge role in my life for several years to come. Her name is Trainer. Now, one thing you must know about Trainer is that she is invisible. Even I can't see her, but I can certainly hear her—and I'm the only one who can. In fact, she lives in my head, but that doesn't hinder her one bit. What she lacks in physical existence, she more than makes up for in verbosity. Some of our earliest conversations would go something like this:

TRAINER
:
Teasi, sit up straight. The fat roll on your stomach is bulging out like crazy.

YOUNG FAT GIRL
:
Oh, okay. (
Sits up as straight as humanly possible.
)

TRAINER
:
Now, look at how wide the expanse of your thigh is on that bench compared to Christina's. Disgusting! Put your feet up on your toes or something to keep those legs from pressing down on the seat.

YOUNG FAT GIRL
:
Oh, okay. (
Sits in ridiculously uncomfortable position in order to decrease thigh width by an amazing half an inch.
)

I remember getting so fed up with Trainer every now and then that I would humiliate myself just to torture her. This would involve something akin to me being nude in front of a mirror while jumping up and down repeatedly just to watch my rolls bounce. I knew she hated my fat, and in my mind this would really show her. But my antics didn't do anything to help my self-image.

And of course my best friends in school were always skinny chicks. I may not know you personally, but I bet if you hated your nose as a young girl, your best friend had a perfect one. It's got to be one of those laws of nature: “What-ever a young girl lacks and wants more than anything, her best friend surely has.”

All through my school years, my closest friends were beautiful (a God-given attribute I can now—finally—applaud in others). This made Trainer even angrier the older I got. Man, she would get really upset with me:

TRAINER
:
Oh! My! Gosh! Teasi! No boys are going to like you like they do Michelle if you can't get some fat off that rear end. (
Trainer was never one to hold back.
)

TEEN FAT GIRL
:
I'm trying. I'm doing aerobics every day and running miles.

TRAINER
:
Yeah, but you can't get enough of those honey buns, now can you? Just have to keep stuffing that fat face! If you could just stop eating, maybe you could get a boyfriend.

TEEN FAT GIRL
:
Well, today all I've had is a half cup of Cheerios with one-fourth cup of skim milk, three M&Ms, a spoonful of peanut butter, three small sips of a grape slushy, a cherry Life Saver, half of a ham sandwich with light mayo on thin bread, and an apple.

TRAINER
:
Don't forget the three crackers.

TEEN FAT GIRL
:
Oh, yeah. And three crackers. (
Hangs head in shame).

Oh, it was torture. No matter what I did to lose weight, I was always several sizes larger than other girls. It didn't make any difference to me that my body fat percentage was right where it should be. What mattered was the number on the scale.

And soon the only other thing that mattered was having a boyfriend.

I got my very first boyfriend in seventh grade, and I was elated. I still remember the thud of the tightly folded note as it dropped on my desk. Once I opened it, I could see that my name was fourth in line after three others which had been scribbled out, but that didn't matter to me. I ignored those names and focused on the words, “Will you go with me, check
yes
or
no
.” Shaky and giddy with excitement, I checked in the affirmative and tossed the note behind me, trusting it would land in the right place. I felt like I was in a dream. I was now the girlfriend of Kurt, one of the popular kids.

Our first date was a trip to McDonald's. His dad picked me up in his brown El Camino, and we were off. As soon as his dad pulled out of the parking lot, leaving us for an hour of quality time, Kurt took my hand and asked me if I wanted to take a walk first.
How romantic
, I thought.
Wow, this is better than I could have imagined.

We walked along the railroad tracks that ran behind McDonald's, talking and laughing about school stuff. Once we rounded the first bend and were sufficiently out of view, Kurt leaned over to kiss me. My first kiss. I was floating. That is, until I felt his hand traveling up my shirt.

“No, Kurt. Don't do that,” I said. And the kissing continued. Until I felt his hand trying to undo my pants.

“No, Kurt. Stop. You'll respect me for this when you're older.”

As you can probably predict, Kurt didn't stop to look at me with deep appreciation for my mature composure, as I was certain he would. He only laughed in my face, told me we were through, and headed back to McDonald's. It was a silent ride home. I didn't even get a cheeseburger.

I did a pretty good job protecting my private parts until tenth grade, but by then my self-esteem had plummeted while my pant size continued to rise. My best friend wore a size zero then, and I wore a size 10, which meant I had no chance at all of attracting a boy with my looks. Welcome to my promiscuous years.

As if Trainer wasn't bad enough, after several years of doing what seemed necessary to get attention from the opposite sex, another prominent character entered my life. Meet Reflection. Like Trainer, she was disgusted with me, but for different reasons. Trainer hated what I looked like, but Reflection hated who I was. And she was very good at bringing up the things I was trying hard to ignore in order to simply live with myself:

REFLECTION
:
How could you end up with that guy? You really have become quite the slut.

YOUNG FAT WOMAN
:
No I'm not. Please don't say that.

REFLECTION
:
I thought you were going to wait until you were married. What happened to that little dream, huh?

YOUNG FAT WOMAN
:
It died, I guess. (
Wipes away a tear.
)

We all have times in our lives that we regret, but I really feel sad when I look back on those years of my life. The desire to be a virgin on my wedding day was always present in my little girl heart. The problem was, that desire did not come with an understanding of
why
I wanted it. So, when the pressure came to give up that dream, there was no arsenal with which to fight. It took me years to understand purity was a God-given desire—one He puts in all little girls' hearts, and some girls are strong enough to protect it. But for some of us, the desire gets buried by the lies of this world, and we are tricked into giving ourselves away too soon. Oh, God
tries
to protect our hearts with His instructions, doesn't He? He knows that sexual intimacy is a gift—a priceless gift meant to be enjoyed by a man and a woman who will never leave each other. It is a deep sharing of oneself, not meant to be experienced with those who do not understand.

In my ignorance and in my pain, I had given myself away one piece at a time until Reflection couldn't even look at me anymore.

Reflection and I hated each other for many years. Then Jesus came. I was twenty-one when He entered my life for keeps, and I will never forget that time.

For me it happened basically like this: I sank to a new, wretched low. None of my friends wanted anything to do with me—including my heartthrob. Completely alone and crying for days, I finally realized something needed to seriously change. In other words, it finally dawned on me that I was doing a
reeheeheally
(thank you, Jim Carrey) bad job of directing my life. Miraculously, the Jesus I met casually as a little girl came knocking on the door of my heart again and lovingly asked, “Can I have my throne now?” I couldn't hop down fast enough.