Free Secrets of a Former Fat Girl by Lisa Delaney

her being into any of that. But a woman whose four kids I used to babysit was always doing something to try to lose her postpartum pounds. In her pantry she kept a box of a “diet candy” with the unfortunate name of Aids. (I found it one night when I was foraging for snacks after the kids went to sleep—one of the Fat Girl perks for babysitting.) It was so named because they “aided” women who were trying to lose weight. Aids were half-inch, chocolate- or vanilla-flavored cubes almost as chewy as Tootsie Rolls but not nearly as tasty. I am sure they contained caffeine, at the very least, or maybe some now illegal appetite suppressant. The things never did much for me, but then I don’t think they were meant to be taken as a chaser after a junk food binge, in the desperate hope that they would somehow undo the damage.
    At the time I didn’t realize what a mistake it was to “announce” that I was dieting. I wanted my family—Mom and Dad, especially—to know that I was trying. I could see how relieved and happy they were when I courageously passed up a second helping or a dish of the chocolate pudding Mom often made for dessert. I made a big show of it, feeding their expectations, winning their approval. After all, they desperately wanted to help me; they hated to see me miserable, lonely, and stuffing myself.
    And that actually turned out to be the problem. By going public with my diet, I basically invited everyone in my family to “help.” Now they could voice, in the spirit of helping, all those hints, tips, and wise observations they had been keeping to themselves. They had free rein to police my plate, to point out any breach of the rules I had so publicly proclaimed. They didn’t have to hold back: They could remind me how fattening mashed potatoes are and that Oreos aren’t exactly diet food and that between-meal snacking really puts on the pounds. As if I didn’t know.
    â€œAre you sure you want that?” “Is that on your diet?” These were innocent questions, I know, posed with the best of intentions, but to me they sounded like stinging criticisms, expressions of doubt and distrust. I heard “You aren’t strong enough to lose the weight on your own. You can’t be trusted to make your own decisions about how to manage your appetite. You’re a wimp.”
    All those questions and comments simply confirmed what I already believed deep inside: I was weak. I couldn’t do it. And they made me want to shove away the diet plate, tuck into the all-you-can-eat platter, and give up altogether.
    My brothers only made things worse. They used my diet proclamation to push my buttons. “Some diet that is!” one might say when I put something decidedly undietlike on my plate. Or “ Mom , is Lisa allowed to have a cookie?” Not quite the supportive atmosphere you need when you’re trying to break a hardwired overeating habit.
    To my parents I’d mumble something like “No, I guess I don’t need a handful of chips while I watch the Flintstones .” To my brothers I’d react with a shrewish “Shut up!”—all the while planning a secret rendezvous with the snack jar the first chance I got.
    When it was obvious that their help wasn’t exactly helping, my parents held back their comments as best they could and tried to get my brothers to stifle theirs. But the damage was done. After the first or second time I “came out” as a dieter, I figured out just how alert the family became to every spoonful I put on my plate, every forkful that made it to my mouth. Their comments echoed in my mind as real as if they were repeated out loud. If I had any notion that telling them would help me keep my promise to myself, the reality was just the opposite: All it took was one look, a raised eyebrow, the flash of a frown, and my resolve to lose the weight would crumble. I’d go right back to