Free It Was Me All Along: A Memoir by Andie Mitchell Page A

cleared our plates, Mom paid the bill, and then we’d run into a convenience store near the movie theater to grab sodas and candy bars for the show. Kate got a package of Reese’s, and I did, too, along with a Kit Kat. We’d each grab a twenty-ounce Coke from the cold case, and at the end of the movie, Kate would still have a nearly full bottle. Her stomach was so tiny, she couldn’t drink as much as I could, I reasoned.
    After the movie, Mom dropped Kate off, and we returnedhome. What I know now about those nights was that Kate went straight to bed, while I grabbed an assortment of Little Debbie and Hostess cakes and sat down for an hour of television before hitting the sack.
    A few weeks into the group study, after weight loss had eluded me weigh-in after weigh-in, I convinced myself that I was in the placebo group. I stopped taking the prescribed pills. I was sure that no improvement to my appetite was being made by taking them anyhow. Mom urged me to continue, thinking that something was better than nothing, but I resisted. And though I didn’t say it aloud, I began to resent her for the mixed messages she sent me. I resented her wanting me to lose weight while telling me that I was perfect the way I was. I resented that she encouraged me to eat better but still agreed to drive me through Burger King for a Whopper Meal if I asked her. I resented not only that I began sneaking into the kitchen to eat Oatmeal Creme Pies in secret, but that she bought them, along with Yodels and Oreos, in the first place. I knew she only wanted me to be happy and that, in losing weight, I’d be happier. I knew that she, like me, only wanted to do what was asked of her, by anyone. So she stayed silent when I continued to order the chicken fingers platter at Pizzeria Uno rather than a salad. She bought desserts because I loved them, regardless of rightness. But still, I knew her desire for me to lose weight was there. And I wished it weren’t. The outside world made me feel imperfect enough that I didn’t want to feel judged inside my home, as well.
    I continued to attend group meetings, and I began to hate them more. They were a tiresome commitment. An early-Saturday-morningreminder of how fat I was. In the remaining two months of the study, my weight stayed mostly the same. When it ended, I continued eating as I always had, only now, the taste of the foods I loved were laced with bitterness.
    Through the rest of eighth grade, I gained another five pounds. But Mom? She lost thirty with a combination of walking on her lunch breaks, eating smaller portions, and her tiring work schedule. She’d ask me to go for a bike ride with her, and I’d say a firm no, because I was already running out of motivation; a ride around the neighborhood couldn’t help that. She did what I had only dreamed to do. She did what she dreamed for me to do. She was radiant. More alive, more energetic. She was as light, as bright, in presence and mind, as she was in body. I envied her. I’d watch her wear the clothing from the Gap that I eyed on mannequins. I wanted so badly to tuck my shirt in with such ease. The way she carried herself reminded me of old photos I’d seen of her from the early 1970s, when she modeled. Her confidence became disarming. Her glow dulled me somehow.
    The following winter brought my first formal dance as a freshman at Medfield High School. That ninth graders were even allowed to attend the same dance as upperclassmen was enough to ensure that everyone in my grade bought a ticket. Boys wore well-starched shirts, jackets, and ties; girls wore long gowns and high heels and got their hair done. The whole fall was abuzz with excitement as my best friends and I fantasized about December and dresses and dates. I was almost able to be thoroughly thrilled, except for one thing: it was a Sadie Hawkins dance. The girls asked the boys.
    On one hand, I knew that if the boys had to ask the girls—asit was with traditional dances—certainly no